Rhoni looked beyond Rhodri to where Ronan waited. “But he sees his destiny differently. I have no part in that vision.”
Rhodri clasped her hands in his. “Do not give up hope. I trusted that Rhonwen would be mine, and it came to be. Farewell, Lady Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce. It has been my privilege to meet you at last. Give my regards to your father.”
He winked and she laughed out loud. “I will be in enough trouble without doing that!”
He gave her a last reassuring hug, then helped her mount Fortissima. “Goodbye, little one.”
Ronan had dismounted and handed the reins of his pony to Rhydderch. He strode over to Rhodri and Rhoni. Conall trailed after him. She had consented to share her horse with Ronan until they reached her bodyguards on the other side of the border. The message sent with a bird from Cadair Berwyn to Ellesmere had asked for a spare horse to be brought. Ronan would not accept a pony from Rhodri, knowing the Welsh needed every animal they had.
Rhoni pressed her lips together, filled with emotion as the two giants clasped arms and embraced. They slapped each other on the back, but did not exchange a single word, both men apparently understanding the other’s feelings.
Her heart stopped when Ronan suddenly vaulted into her saddle, lifting her easily at the same time so she sat on his lap. Flustered, feeling her face redden, she tried not to lean against him, but it was impossible. He took the reins and nudged the horse up and over the bridge to England, Conall on foot behind them. As they reached the other side, they stopped and turned to look back. Rhodri and his retinue had already disappeared.
Rhoni tensed, chewing her lower lip, tears welling in her eyes.
Ronan seemed to sense her sadness. “Lean on me,” he whispered.
She relaxed back against him, reassured by his strength. They rode through a meadow carpeted with bluebells and Rhoni espied her bodyguards waiting for them in a thicket beyond. Suddenly she sat up straight, feeling nervous. “My captain’s name is Gabriel Duquesne. He will be leery of you both, but I will explain.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ronan clenched his jaw. Holding her in his arms, albeit for a short while, had resulted in a thrusting arousal that she must feel pressed against her bottom. But he should be keeping his attention on the scowling Normans who awaited them, armed to the teeth. He supposed the devise on their surcoats was Ellesmere’s.
“Stay back, Conall. We don’t want to alarm these men.”
Rhoni turned to look at him. “It will be alright. They can see I am not harmed or in danger.”
Críost, if only she would stay still!
“But I doubt they expected to see you in the arms of a tall, dark stranger.”
She giggled, proof that she too was nervous. If she was this wary of introducing him to the captain of her guard, how would she fare with her father?
Duquesne urged his magnificent black stallion forward, dismounting quickly when he reached them and taking hold of Fortissima’s bridle. He stroked the white blaze on the horse’s face. Clearly the mare recognized and trusted him. Disquietude was written plainly on his handsome features as his eyes darted from Rhoni to the unknown one-eyed rider on whose lap she sat.
He bowed respectfully. “Milady, welcome home.”
Ronan suspected there was more to his greeting than concern. A hint of possession flashed in the young man’s eyes. Duquesne cared for his mistress. Inexplicably, Ronan felt the stab of jealousy.
What was he thinking? He had no right to envy any man who lusted after Rhoni de Montbryce. He cringed at the hopelessness of the young man’s situation. The Earl of Ellesmere would quickly squelch any intentions a mere guard captain might harbor for his daughter.
Montbryce would hardly favour a dispossessed Irish nobleman with one eye either. That sobered him—why he did not know. Rhoni had somehow got into his blood, but he must put an end to his preoccupation with her.
He handed the reins back to Rhoni and dismounted to face the Norman. Other men were intimidated by his height, but Duquesne stood his ground and Ronan had to admire him for that. Of course, the captain had a troop of soldiers to back him up, but Ronan was reassured that this young man would indeed defend his mistress to the death. “I am Lord Ronan MacLachlainn,” he declared.
Now Duquesne took a step back, glancing nervously at his mistress for confirmation. She nodded and the soldier gave him a perfunctory bow. “Milord,” he acknowledged.
Rhoni patted Fortissima’s neck. “She is happy to see you, Gabriel. Did you bring a horse for Lord Ronan?”
Again jealousy surged through Ronan. She addressed this servant by his given name, indicating a relationship of familiarity. It irked him.
Duquesne beckoned another soldier forward. “Bring the spare mount, vite!”
Judging by the clipped command, Duquesne was irritated by his presence. Had he sensed Ronan’s jealousy? It was imperative he not show his emotions if he harbored any hope of enlisting Montbryce’s help.
Rhoni tried not to let her disappointment show when the horse was brought forward. Despite being a fine animal, it was much too small for a man of Ronan’s stature. She did not like the idea of his riding into Ellesmere looking anything but impressive.
It irritated her too that Gabriel, atop his own huge horse, barely hid a derisive smirk as Ronan mounted, drawing Conall up to ride behind him, after the lad had adjusted the stirrups for his master. Perhaps she had been too friendly with her captain, but she liked Duquesne and had disliked the formality of using his family name. Her parents had told her often she was too familiar with servants, but she had known Gabriel since childhood.
“I am anxious to get home, Gabriel,” she said haughtily. “Are your men ready?”
He frowned. “Of course, milady. We will soon have you back where you belong. There has been no trouble from the Welsh barbarians. Saxon bandits have been reported to the south, near Warwick, but they need not cause us concern. They’ve probably been caught and executed by now.”
Rhoni cringed at the way he referred to the Welsh people and she noted Ronan’s disgust. He seemed to have sensed what had been said, though he had learned but a few words of Norman French. It suddenly occurred to her that many Saxons had probably been driven into banditry by the oppression of their Norman conquerors, as Rhodri had been. She had never put herself in their place before. “Lead on then. I will ride with Lord Ronan.”
Gabriel looked displeased at the idea, but quickly formed his men into two parties, one to ride at the head of their group, the other in the rear behind Ronan and Rhoni. He led the way east to Ellesmere Castle.
En route, Rhoni taught Ronan and Conall some basic greetings in Norman French. It would not hurt to address Ram de Montbryce in his own language.
She smiled at his attempts to repeat the phrases. “Am I not saying it correctly?’ he asked.
“On the contrary, milord, you are doing well. You have a good ear, as do you, Conall.”
The lad blushed at the praise.
Ronan hoped he would remember the words she was teaching him when he came face to face with her father. Much was riding on enlisting his help in some way. He liked the sound of Rhoni’s language. It rolled off her tongue like honey from the dipper. A patient teacher, she would be a good mother. What would she look like swollen with child—his child?
The idea was too appealing. The horse was not comfortable anyway. Blood rushing to his shaft made it worse. He tired to ease his discomfort without her noticing, but her eyes suddenly caught him with his hand at his groin. She reddened.
He said the first thing that came into his head. “This horse is too small for a man my size.”
Conall snickered and Ronan immediately regretted his words as Rhoni hastily looked away, her face reddening further. She was even more stunningly beautiful when she blushed. He wondered if the flush covered her breasts.
So much for getting rid of this urge!
They passed through the village of Oswestry where they stopped to water the
horses. They bought meat pies from a market vendor. Duquesne fussed about not wasting time. He wanted to arrive at Ellesmere before nightfall.
They had travelled a few miles further when an outcry at the head of the column caught their attention. For some reason, Duquesne was no longer atop his horse. The stallion reared up, its hooves striking the air frantically. Conall slid off Ronan’s horse, nocked an arrow to his bow and ran ahead.
Before Ronan could dismount, a man dropped from the trees and landed on his back, a dagger in his grip. The stench of a long unwashed body made Ronan’s belly clench. He grasped the assailant’s filthy wrist before the weapon could be drawn across his throat.
What had happened to the rear guard?
He heard Rhoni cry out in fear.
A soldier came galloping from the head of the column. “Saxon brigands!” he yelled. “Mon capitaine a tombé.”
The sudden thwack of an arrow struck him in the back. He grunted as his eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he fell from the horse.
Struggling to wrench his foul smelling attacker from around his neck, Ronan looked to Rhoni. “Gabriel has fallen,” she cried.
The terror on her face intensified his anger. He twisted the assailant’s wrist, hearing the bone crack. The bandit screamed and fell to the ground, but his blade sliced across the neck of Ronan’s horse. The animal panicked, throwing Ronan off. He landed hard, but came to his feet quickly. He reached down with one hand to grab the man by the throat and unsheathed his new dagger.
The wretch’s eyes bulged when he saw Ronan’s face. “Mercy,” he pleaded.
Ronan did not understand the language, but recognized the plea in the man’s frantic eyes. He would show the same mercy they had shown Duquesne and his soldiers.
Brigands swarmed like bees. Several fought with the men of the rear guard, all of whom had been dragged from their mounts.
Three swarthy bandits surrounded Rhoni, trying to pull her from her horse. She held Fortissima’s reins tightly, kicking at her attackers. Ronan’s heart pounded in his chest. He had to reach her. He swiped his dagger across his attacker’s throat, then turned to help Rhoni.
“Ronan!” she screamed. It was the last thing he heard before something struck him hard on the back of the head. Pain exploded. For a moment he was back in the cells beneath Túr MacLachlainn. He dropped to his knees and surrendered to oblivion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Rhoni’s heart stopped when Ronan staggered under the blow from his assailant’s club. She had not warned him in time. She kicked hard at the filthy men surrounding her, urging the terrified Fortissima to flee, but could not hold them off. They dragged her to the ground, face down. Her horse ran off.
One of the men pressed his knee into her back, stroking his hand over her derrière. Fear and outrage surged through her. Dirt clogged her nostrils. She was going to be sick. “Not so high and mighty now, Norman bitch, in your fancy leather riding breeches.”
She recognized the harsh tones of the old West Saxon dialect. These were desperate men who may have lived outside the law for thirty years. They were in unfamiliar territory, evidently fleeing north into her father’s earldom.
Her tormentor hauled her to her feet, his grip digging into the flesh of her arm. His bulbous nose was inches from hers. The reek of decay emanating from his almost toothless mouth brought more bile surging up her throat. She gagged against his ragged tunic, swooning as the fever of terror took hold. He held her up with one hand, the other wiping off the front of his wretched clothes.
Another man pawed at her breast. “Goin’ to share, I hope, Daegal.”
Her frog-eyed captor shoved him away. “Aye, but I’ll take her first, Eldwyn. You can have her after me. But not here. We’ve lost too many and some of the Normans are gaining ground.”
A flicker of hope licked at Rhoni’s heart. Perhaps all was not lost. Daegal slung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain and loped into the trees. Eldwyn and the other man followed, leaving their remaining compatriots to deal with the Normans.
Unable to breath as a bony shoulder pounded into her belly, overwhelmed by the rank odour of the man’s body, Rhoni surrendered to hopelessness and fainted.
“Céard sa diabhal,” Ronan spluttered as cold water drenched his face. Was he yet in the cursed cells, still in the hands of his tormentors? Had he dreamed it? Was Rhoni someone he had imagined in his delirium?
His eye flew open. Rhoni! She was definitely real.
He wiped the water from his face. A man knelt beside him, digging his fingers into his shoulder. “Milord! Milord!”
Ronan sat up, his head pounding, and tried to make sense of what had happened. It was Duquesne who shook him, his pallor ashen. The nock and fletchings of the arrow that had felled him had been broken off, but most of the shaft remained, embedded deep in his thigh. Blood oozed from the wound.
“They have taken my lady,” Duquesne grunted through gritted teeth. Perspiration sheened his brow. “I cannot walk or ride. You must rescue her.”
Ronan brushed a hand over the back of his head, wincing at the goose egg. The chilling memory of the brutal attack rushed back, and he remembered Rhoni’s terror. They had her. Dread roiled in his gut. Fury flooded him.
He looked around. Several of the Normans had been badly wounded. Many lay dead. The brigands had suffered heavy losses. Where was Conall? Once again Ronan had failed to protect people who mattered. His new sword was still in its scabbard. He had not had the chance to draw it. At least his dagger had been bloodied.
He came groggily to his feet, picking up the knife. The blood was still wet. The brigands did not have much of a head start, but which direction had they gone?
To his relief, Fortissima stood at the edge of the trees, wild-eyed, restless. She appeared unharmed. At least he had a horse. Why had they not taken her? Did they have mounts of their own, or had they gone on foot? He did not recall seeing any animals, but perhaps they had left them in the forest.
Or mayhap securing horseflesh had been the intent of the attack. He strode around the clearing, looking for signs, any indication of which way they had gone. “Did no one see them leave?” he demanded angrily.
A rustling of leaves and movement in the trees prompted him to draw his sword. “Put it away, my lord,” Conall rasped breathlessly. “’Tis me.”
Ronan sheathed his sword. The lad collapsed into his arms. “Did you see where they went, boy?”
Conall struggled for breath. “I followed them. Three. They had only a donkey. One of them rode it, Lady Rhoni across his lap like a sack of grain.”
The anger and dread that had seized Ronan after his capture by the MacFintains paled in comparison to the blazing fury that gripped him now. Some crazed creature hammered to break free of his chest. His lungs were on fire.
Rhoni was still alive, at least when Conall had last seen her. But the brigands had failed in their attack, securing neither coin nor horses and losing many of their number. They would be angry.
He ran over to Fortissima, mounted quickly and held out his hand to Conall. “Show me.”
Rhoni was a mouse being toyed with by a big, ugly cat. She hoped death would come swiftly, but doubted it. Daegal would make sure she remained alive for his cronies to debauch further.
They had taken her boots and made a big farce of trying to wedge them on their own huge feet, their laughter increasing as they swigged some foul smelling liquid from a crock. The reek of it threatened to have her retching again as they staggered near, sneering in her face.
The third man soon passed out, snoring loudly. Eldwyn made a lewd impatient gesture to Daegal, evidently eager to have his turn at her. She sensed he feared Daegal and would defer to him. At least she would be raped by one at a time. The certainty that her father would hunt down these men and kill them slowly came as grim consolation.
She squeezed her eyes tight shut, blinking away the tears that welled when she thought of Ronan. How she had longed to lie with him, to gi
ft him with her virginity. Now he was probably dead, as she soon would be. They had wandered safely through Wales, a land supposedly full of peril, only to fall a few miles from home.
She tensed when Daegal staggered to his feet and stumbled towards her, a knife in his hand.
Ave Maria, gratia plena—
Chanting the prayer in her head, she shifted her derrière on the hard ground, frantically trying to loosen the rope that bound her hands behind her back. It was pointless. She had already rubbed her wrists raw.
Daegal fell to his knees beside her, grinning from ear to ear. The air had cooled as the afternoon sun sank in the west, and the lengthening shadows hid his face from her view. But she recognized his intent immediately. Though her heart hammered in her chest, she would not beg and prayed for the courage to die well.
The dagger Daegal waved back and forth jerked each time he hiccupped. Suddenly he flicked his wrist and sliced through one of the three leather bindings of her jerkin. He chortled with glee like a demented child.
Deafened by her heartbeat, Rhoni shuffled away from him, but he followed, still on his knees. “Where are you going, lovely Norman wench?”
She spat in his face. His grin tightened as he slapped her. She recoiled as the shock of the pain took away her breath, but he grasped her arms and made her sit up again.
He waved the dagger and sliced through the second and third bindings. The bodice gave way. The only thing that now stood between her breasts and this monster was a thin shift that likely was not enough to conceal her fear hardened nipples. His rheumy gaze confirmed her dread.
He reached out his calloused hands and squeezed both nipples hard. She gasped in pain. Something broke inside. She would not go willingly like a lamb to the slaughter. She rolled away onto her back. If she had still been wearing her boots, the sharp kick she administered with her heel to his groin might have done more damage. As it was he grunted in surprised anger, holding his male parts as he staggered to his feet.
Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight Page 10
