She took a deep breath. “I will allow you to accompany me to Ellesmere Castle, Lord Ronan, but you should harbour no illusions about my father’s willingness to help you.”
Ronan brushed his lips across the back of her hand. How she wanted him to kiss her mouth and other unmentionable parts of her body instead.
“I thank you, Lady Rhoni. You have thrown me a lifeline in this sea of despair.”
If she did not leave the table she would give in to the urge to throw her arms around his neck. Cravings she had never experienced before thrummed through her body and dampness slicked the apex of her thighs. She stood abruptly. Ronan and Rhodri both came to their feet. Ronan touched her elbow. Did he feel her tremble?
“I am suddenly tired after our tour this morning. Lord Rhodri, please excuse me.”
Ronan increased his grip on her elbow. “I will accompany you to your chamber.”
“Non, that is not necessary.”
She pulled her arm away and hastened out of the hall.
Ronan inhaled deeply as he regained his seat. The scent of Rhoni’s arousal lingered, mingling with her usual intriguing perfume, wreaking havoc on his senses.
Rhodri clasped a hand on his shoulder. “Take care, Lord Ronan. You may be playing with fire. You do not want to make an enemy of the Earl of Ellesmere.”
Ronan rubbed his chin. “She has agreed that I may accompany her to England.”
“So I heard. Again, I warn you to be careful. It is obvious there is a strong alchemy between you and Rhoni de Montbryce.”
Ronan bristled. “I assure you my motives are solely political. There is no room in my life for another wife. I have nothing to offer, and regaining my lands is my priority. It would be unreasonable to expect a relationship between me and Rhoni.”
Rhodri chuckled. “My friend, the heart can have its own reasons that have nothing to do with reason itself.”
Ronan folded his arms across his chest. “Lord Rhodri, I would remind you my wife was only recently murdered. My first loyalty is to her and my unborn child. My heart died with Mary.”
Rhodri chewed his chicken silently for a few minutes. He wiped his mouth, then his eating dagger with a napkin. “I understand the need for retribution. It has ruled my existence. But a man needs love in his life too, lest he drown in bitterness. Seek your vengeance, but don’t destroy yourself and Rhoni in the process.”
Ronan pointed to his blighted eye. “Look at me. Why would a beautiful woman like Rhoni be interested in a man like me? She can have any man she wants. She no doubt has many suitors.”
Rhodri shook his head vigorously. “I have known Rhoni only a short while, but she is no practised flirt. I sense she is as confused about her emotions as you are. I am also a great believer in destiny, my friend. Celtic blood flows in your veins. You know there is no escape from destiny.”
Ronan came to his feet. “My destiny is to win back my lands and exact my vengeance on Lorcan and Fothud MacFintain. If the Earl of Ellesmere is not the man to help me I will search for another means of achieving my goal. Forgive me, I have need of air.”
Rhodri waited until he reached the door, then called to him. “I will advise Rhoni to be ready to leave for Ellesmere in a sennight.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fothud MacFintain drained the last swig of uisce beatha from his tumbler, seething with resentment that his brother had sailed off to England to meet with their Norman confederate, leaving him behind.
Lorcan had insisted it was his fault Ronan MacLachlainn had escaped, but how was that possible? They had both been too drunk to stay awake, but Lorcan seemed to think it his younger brother’s responsibility since he had passed out first.
That was the trouble with Lorcan—forever lording it over Fothud because he was a scant year older.
Bring me ale, Fothud.
Fetch me a wench, Fothud.
No you can’t have that one, Fothud. I want her.
Anyone would think Lorcan was the bloody High King of All Ireland the way he carried on.
Fothud banged his empty tumbler on the table until a serving wench appeared, fear oozing out of her. He snickered. At least someone respected him. “More whiskey,” he belched.
She scurried off to do his bidding, returning with a jug. She poured whiskey into his tumbler with trembling hands. The chamber was spinning, but Fothud was convinced this was the girl Lorcan had taken to his bed on the eve of his departure.
Fothud chuckled as his arousal swelled. Lorcan probably thought this wench was his property to do with as he pleased.
Well brother, you’re not here. Gone off to hobnob with the Norman gentry.
He pinched the girl’s bottom hard, startling her. She dropped the jug, spilling the contents over Fothud’s feet. She stood like a statue, seemingly rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed on the wet boots.
Fothud stepped out of the puddle and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head back so she had no choice but to look at him. “Sooner see blood spilled. You’ll have to be punished for that, my girl. But before we away to my chamber, let me see you lick the uisce beatha off my boots.”
Lorcan did not like or trust the Earl of Chester. The arrogant man put him in mind of a big, fat wolf. He waited nervously in the Earl’s antechamber, aware the Norman would be angry he had come, and angrier still when he learned of MacLachlainn’s escape.
He worried about his brother back in Ireland. Mayhap leaving Fothud in charge was not a good idea. There may only be a year between them, but Fothud was such a child. No use fretting on that now, he had his own challenge to deal with.
The doors banged open, rousing the snake coiled in Lorcan’s belly. The Earl waddled in, accompanied by a small bearded man, clad in the robes of a scribe.
“Why are you here, Irishman? I warned you specifically not to come to this castle. We deal only through intermediaries. Have you brought coin, at least?”
The scribe translated.
Lorcan bowed low and offered a purse to the scribe, aware it would be deemed inadequate. “Forgive me, my lord. I had to come.”
The scribe counted the coin. Chester sneered when he learned the amount. “I trust this enormous sum did not weigh you down too heavily as you crossed the Irish Sea?”
Lorcan dug his finger into the collar of his doublet and cleared his throat, uncertain as to whether he should laugh at the Earl’s jest. “There have been problems at Túr MacLachlainn, or Túr MacFintain as we call it now.”
The Earl strode to within an inch of Lorcan’s nose. His breath reeked of onions. Lorcan had hated onions since childhood.
“I am not interested in problems. I have provided you with enough mercenaries to solve problems.”
Lorcan struggled to ignore the snake that now slithered up his spine. “’Tis true, my lord, you have been generous, but your men demanded more money for a search.”
He screwed up his courage and switched to Norman French, hoping he would recall correctly the exact words the mercenary commander had used. “They claimed it was not in the purview of their role.”
Chester frowned, squinting at him. “Search?”
Lorcan swallowed hard, wondering what the consequences would be if he retched on the Earl’s velvet slippers. “The Baron MacLachlainn escaped.”
Chester arched his brows. “Escaped from what?”
Lorcan must have explained how they had tortured and blinded the lord of Túr MacLachlainn, then returned to finish him off only to discover he had escaped, but his wits had turned to mush and suddenly there was naught but silence while the Earl considered what he had apparently said.
“Fools,” the Earl mumbled.
Lorcan remained silent, studying the floor, understanding, though the scribe had not translated.
“And the search failed to track a scourged and half blind man? What became of him?”
Lorcan cringed at the quiet menace in the Norman’s voice. An uncontrollable tic worried his left eye. “We presume he drowned. No other explanatio
n, my lord.”
Chester rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “You had better hope so, MacFintain. Dispossessed and tortured men tend to hold grudges. They seek revenge. I cannot be implicated in any way in this bungled seizure. My men will be withdrawn immediately, if I get wind that MacLachlainn lives. I advised you of the strategic importance of that Tower. It is incumbent upon you to secure it, then we can both profit from its fertile fields.”
He waddled out, the scribe following in his wake like a baby duckling after its mother. Lorcan wiped his sleeve across his brow and breathed a sigh of relief he had said nothing about the death of MacLachlainn’s wife, nor the missing son of the dead steward. At least he hoped he had not.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A child of coastal plains, Ronan savoured the primitive beauty of the Welsh mountains. The mist rolled in and out of the valleys of Cadair Berwyn just as it stole over the shore at Sord Colmcille.
He fell into the habit of walking each morning to the edge of the outcropping where he had discovered a quiet place to contemplate the future. He sat cross legged, his mended shinbone aching now only a little. He filled his lungs with the crisp air and felt a measure of peace he had not known for many sennights.
He half closed his good eye and imagined the crag looming out of the mist before him was Túr MacLachlainn. When he sought the Earl’s aid, should he tell of his love for his home, or would the Norman think him maudlin?
Surely a noble warrior would understand the need for vengeance? But what motivation to give the Earl? Why should Ram de Montbryce send soldiers on a risky venture in a land across the sea? They could drown before they reached Ireland.
He had rehearsed what he would say over and over in the six days since Rhoni had agreed to take him to Ellesmere. He was still no closer on this the eve of their departure. Rhoni had more or less avoided him, and though he needed her advice, he did not want her to think he pursued her. Whenever he was in her presence he thought only of carrying her off to his bed.
Even in this place of solitude her perfume lingered in the air.
Conall had lost patience with him and become sullen and moody. The boy had managed to filch a dagger from somewhere, and complained constantly that Ronan had not even procured a sword.
It was a moot point. Rhodri had invited Ronan to train with his men in the afternoons. It felt good to wield a sword again, albeit a borrowed one. His muscles ached after the long period of inactivity while he convalesced, but it was a satisfying ache. He was mending, learning to fight with one eye, preparing.
But he acknowledged it would be a long while before he could undertake an assault on Túr MacLachlainn, even if Montbryce consented to help him. His grandfather had built an impregnable fortress.
He inhaled deeply, closed his eye and rocked from side to side, adrift on the sea. A song from his youth came unbidden to his lips.
Tá cailín álainn a dtug mé grá dí
Sí is-deise’s is-áille ná bláth na rós.
Gan í ar láimh liom is cloíte atá mé.
A cailín álainn, is tú fáth mo bhrón.
He heard a rustling movement behind him. He came to his feet and turned, expecting to see Conall. Rhoni de Montbryce stood before him, one hand gripping the folds of her skirt, the other pressed to her mouth. She looked ready to bolt.
He held out his hand. “Surely you’re not still afraid of me?”
Rhoni was conflicted. She had followed Ronan to this deserted place each day and watched him from a distance without his knowledge. But this day, the mellow sweetness of his deep voice, singing a plaintive song in his own language, had overtaken her senses and she had inadvertently revealed her presence. His breath, visible in the cool morning air, had carried the haunting words of his song into the stoic mountains around them.
But he thought she feared him?
Mayhap she did. She certainly feared the emotions he stirred and the sensations he caused in private parts of her body she had never paid much attention to before.
She lifted the hem of her skirt slightly and took a hesitant step towards him. “I chanced upon you as you sang. You have a melodious voice. Can you tell me the meaning of the words?”
He took hold of her hand. “Sit with me and I will share with you the lament I was singing. We Irish are a strange breed. Even our love songs are laments.”
She sat beside him on the rock, feeling its chill through the fabric of her skirts. “It was a love song?”
“Aye, it’s called An Cailín Álainn, The Beautiful Girl.”
His heated gaze warmed her and she felt her face redden. He still held her hand. “There is a beautiful girl to whom I’ve given my love.”
Oh God.
“She’s lovelier and more beautiful than the bloom of the rose.”
Rhoni longed to press her breasts against his arm. She fixed her gaze on his long fingers entwined with hers, remembering the press of his thumb on her palm.
His voice deepened. “Without her in my arms, I am desolate.”
Her heart stopped. It was a lament for his dead wife.
As he spoke the last line his voice was so low she barely heard it. “Oh beautiful girl, you’re the cause of my sorrow.”
She hoped her own voice would not betray her emotions. “You must have loved your wife very much.”
Ronan glanced up at her sharply. Guilt swept over him. He had forgotten Mary, his thoughts on Rhoni as he sang. He let go of her hand and came to his feet, his back to her. If he claimed to have been passionately in love with Mary, it would keep her away. But it would be a lie, and he sensed she would know it.
“My marriage to Mary was arranged by our fathers. She did not want to marry. She had a true vocation to be a nun, but her father forbade it. Mary was the kindest, sweetest woman. She was a good wife, and we got along.”
“Was she beautiful?”
He turned to face her, stunned as always by the golden hair, the wide brown eyes, the proud nose, the utter perfection of the woman before him who seemed to have no idea of her allure. “She had a beautiful smile.”
“Why not refuse to marry her?”
“Nay, that would have shamed her, and driven her father to find a lesser man. It was my duty to protect her.”
And in that he had failed completely. Even now his thoughts dwelled more on this Norman woman than on the mission ahead. He braced his legs and frowned. “I have tried to compose what I will say to your father to convince him to help me, but I doubt my pleas will impress him. I cannot see any reason why he might agree.”
Rhoni gazed beyond him to the distant peaks. “Neither can I,” she whispered sadly.
Unless I beg him on your behalf.
Rhoni kept her eyes fixed on the scenery, but did not see it. The powerful legs of the giant who stood before her on the edge of the precipice captured all her attention. Till now, her father and Rhodri were the tallest men she had known, but she was sure Ronan was taller.
If she pleaded his case to her father, her infatuation would be apparent. Ronan would be embarrassed, championed by a mere girl he cared naught for.
She wished he would stop staring at her. It was unsettling. The cold damp of the rock had seeped through her skirts. Her derrière was numb, her feet tingling with pins and needles. She tried to rise. He strode forward and offered his hand, pulling her to her feet. They failed her and she lost her balance, falling against him. He caught her easily and steadied her, his hands on her waist.
Mortified at her clumsiness, she arched her back to look up at his face. His lips were parted, his nostrils flared. Panic seized her. His grip tightened. He bent his knees and lifted her to his warm body. For the first time in her life, she felt a man’s hard desire pressed to her most intimate place.
Her breasts tightened, the nipples screaming to be caressed. To her consternation, her hips thrust forward to press more closely to him. Her feet dangled. She wanted to wrap her legs around him. She had lost control of her own body.
He
bent his head and brushed his lips against hers. The savage growl that came from deep in his throat echoed in her breasts as he crushed his hard chest into her softness. His hand wandered up her spine and into her hair. He held his breath, his lips poised to kiss her again.
It suddenly seemed natural to open her mouth and flick her tongue over his lips. He groaned as he captured her tongue in his mouth, sucking hard. She tasted the tart apple he had eaten to break his fast, then his tongue was in her mouth, tasting her, thrusting in and out in a rhythmic movement echoed by their hips. His male scent mingled with the woodland aroma of the soap their Welsh hosts milled with fragrant herbs.
She could scarcely breathe. A maelstrom of confused thoughts swirled in her head, but she recognized clearly her own overwhelming desire for this man, and there was no doubt he wanted her.
He broke off their kiss, and set her feet back on the ground, panting hard. “Críost, I want you.”
She should have been elated, but the deep regret in his voice stunned her. What had happened had been caused by male lust, plain and simple. How often she had been reminded by her mother that men lusted for women they did not necessarily love. Her own father had fallen victim to that weakness and her half brother Caedmon had been the result of it.
She pulled away from him, trembling. There were a thousand things she wanted to say, but could articulate none of them.
He raked his hands through his hair. “I apologize, Lady Rhoni. I should not have done that. I am not currying your favour to intercede on my behalf.”
Only ask me and I will. Tell me you love me and I will walk to the ends of the earth for you.
He proffered his arm. “I will accompany you back to the fortress.”
She hoped he could not see the tears welling in her eyes, nor feel the trembling in her hand as she placed it on his arm. It was like holding on to a solid iron bar. How she longed to feel that strength wrapped around her again.
Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight Page 8
