by Joanne Rock
Her illegitimate son would find acceptance at last.
But the price for clearing his name of her sins would be high indeed.
“I have always known this day awaited me.” Sorcha would not cry in front of a sister already disposed toward giving free rein to her emotions. “In the end, we make no choices without consequences.”
The wisdom had come too late to Sorcha, but it might yet aid Onora. Sorcha watched a group of girls chasing butterflies nearby and felt a pang of yearning for those simpler times when they would have joined the village children in such a game.
“But at least they are your choices.” Onora gazed off into the distance. Nay, she seemed to be staring toward Hugh and the groom. “You did not bend to father’s will to wed some toothless old nobleman who would swive with a sheep in the absence of a woman.”
“Sister!” Sorcha sought for a sense of outrage with which to chide her, but could not hold back a laugh. “I cannot fathom where you have gained such a wicked mind.”
“It is not far from the truth, and well you know it from the men Father offered to you.”
Sorcha recalled two different lords her father had suggested as husbands and shivered anew. She had spent so much time these past moons regretting the life she had to offer Conn that she had almost forgotten what made her rebel so strongly in the first place. Would she have been any better off now if she’d dutifully wed one of those ancient noblemen?
“But I have learned that acceptance is more important than you realize.” She squeezed Onora’s arm to emphasize the point as a nearby children’s game grew rambunctious.
Hot cockles always appealed to the most rowdy children as it involved placing a hood over the eyes of a person in the center while others circled him and randomly hit the blinded person until they were identified by name.
Somehow, this round of hot cockles had spread all the way up the hillside as the blindfolded boy listed about, trying to both duck and guess his tormentors’ names.
Hugh must have noted the players’ advance, for he called out to her from his position farther down the hill. She was about to proclaim her safety when she was struck in the temple and fell heavily to the ground.
Chapter Six
Reckless youths scattered like the wind.
Hugh plowed past them to reach Sorcha, suspicious of every face that streaked by but unable to search for a culprit until he knew the princess of Connacht had suffered no lasting harm. He had been alert for full-grown men who might wish to hurt her or steal her away, not barefoot urchins in the midst of a game.
“Sorcha.” He kneeled to the ground beside her, careful not to land on the river of auburn hair spilling out onto the grass.
Her skin was pale, the faint freckles on her nose standing out in sharper relief. He plunged his hand beneath the blue veils hung from her silver circlet, feeling along the back of her head for any injury. Gently, he sifted through her silky hair.
Relief rushed through him when he found no blood, though he discovered a lump just above her ear. The spot was swollen and warm to the touch.
“She said nothing before she fell,” Onora told him, her voice breathless. “She merely sank to the ground.”
The young groom, Eamon, joined them. Hugh allowed him to be present since he had spoken to Sorcha’s party the night before and discovered the king had indeed given him the task of overseeing the princess’s safety. A mission far too large for one untrained in the knightly arts, but the move seemed typical of a man who could run a kingdom but didn’t know how to handle his daughter.
“She is going to be fine,” Hugh assured Onora, willing it to be so.
His chest tightened at the sight of Sorcha’s face wiped clean of all expression. He wanted to see her eyes open again, her strong temperament animating her face with stubbornness and determination. He remembered the fierceness in her green eyes when she held her son close the first day they met—as if she would wield a sword herself before she allowed Hugh near.
“I will scour the trees,” Eamon announced, his voice firm until Hugh peered up at him and Eamon quickly added, “With you permission, of course.”
Nodding, Hugh released him to the task before lifting Sorcha’s shoulders so that she reclined in his lap as he knelt beside her. She was warm in his arms, her body delicate and light against him. He was struck anew by the need to safeguard her. An overwhelming urge that went far beyond his sworn duty to her father.
He had come here to protect this woman. He knew it somehow, the knowledge planted deep within him in the way that he’d known his given name even though he remembered nothing else. The tightness of holding Sorcha settled over him, quieting a storm inside him that had been raging for nigh on two moons that it had taken him to travel to Ireland and find her. For just this moment, having Sorcha safe beside him was enough.
“She awakens,” Onora whispered, reaching in to touch her sister’s face.
Hugh had to fight the urge to wrench Sorcha away. The need to keep her all to himself was so strong it made him uneasy.
“Sorcha.” He spoke softly to her, calling her from whatever visions the darkness held for her.
What if she awoke with no memories, the same way he had awakened in a crofter’s hut that day two moons ago? What if her mind was as blank as his, her injury stealing all of her secrets and any knowledge she might have of him?
The notion chilled him even as it opened a doorway to intriguing possibilities. A woman who did not know him had no reason to withhold herself from him. Yet, he wouldn’t wish this hellish torture on anyone, most especially not this woman.
“Where is Conn?” She pulled her eyes open, suddenly alert. Blinking, she struggled to sit.
“He is fine,” Hugh assured her. Clearly, she had not lost her memories. “You are at the festival day and he is home with his nurse.”
“Praise the saints,” Onora murmured, moving closer to squeeze Sorcha’s hand. “Eamon went to look for the person who hit you.”
“They were just children,” Sorcha protested, prying herself the rest of the way up so that she sat without any support from him. “No doubt it was an accident.”
His arms ached from the loss of her in them, but he ignored the sting of it to concentrate on what had happened.
“Did you see any of them armed with rocks?”
“Nay.” She shook her head and then stopped abruptly, no doubt in deference to her injury. “They played hot cockles and merely hit one another with their hands.”
Hugh recalled the game in which a hooded child attempted to guess the identity of those who hit him. He had a fleeting memory—a scrap so small it could hardly be called a memory since he merely heard the triumphant shouts and goading words of a childhood pastime before it was gone. But he knew his mind was recalling a game he’d played once. A game with family and friends.
His life had become the opposite of hot cockles. He knew the identity of everyone around him but did not know himself.
“Do you know of anyone who might wish ill upon you?” Hugh lowered his voice and spoke close to her ear, mindful of the small crowd that had gathered to see what had happened.
He would have preferred his introduction to the village to be more discreet so that he might study their faces at his leisure and, perhaps, without their knowledge. If he had passed through here before, he might find some who recognized him. Ideally, he could have gauged people’s reaction to him while they were less guarded. Now, his presence here would be well known. But the importance of his own mission paled in comparison to keeping Sorcha safe.
She peered back at him now, the color coming into her cheeks.
“No one would wish me ill, sir. My banishment permits me no opportunity to make enemies.” She shifted her weight as if to stand. While he would have rather held her there a bit longer, both because touching her was a pleasure and because he wanted her to feel steadier, he helped her to her feet.
Still, he wasn’t ready to give her up to her worried sister or the c
urious fairgoers yet.
“Your lady fares well,” he announced to the crowd, gesturing to her as she stood. “I pray you will allow her a few moments to recover her strength.”
Onora nodded, biting her lip. Perhaps she thought he did not word his request strongly enough, for she made a shooing gesture toward the crowd.
“Aye. Let us give Lady Sorcha some room, please.” She turned to Hugh and spoke hastily, her veils crooked upon her head. “I will fetch her some wine, but keep her still.”
Turning on her slippered foot, Onora made a sweeping motion with her hands as if to brush all the remaining gawkers off the hillside as she strode down into the thick of the fair to retrieve a cup of wine for Sorcha.
Hugh guided her toward a large rock as he kept his eyes upon the tree line in search of Eamon. He did not hold out much hope the groom turned man-at-arms would find who was responsible for striking her, but he waited anxiously for whatever news Eamon brought.
“I am well enough to retrieve my own wine,” she protested. “I did not make a deal to attend the fair with you only to be shuffled off into the farthest corners where I see no one.”
Hugh would not be deterred. No matter that the pink had returned to her cheeks and her eyes blazed with full cognition of her whereabouts, he would not risk anything else happening to her. But he feared that to protect this independent woman, he needed to know far more about her.
“I have reason to suspect someone may want to hurt you.” He could not confide the fact that his services had been retained by her father. Nor could he explain the driving need to protect her that was rooted deep within his muddled brain.
“You make too much of an accident.” Reaching to adjust her circlet, her gown stretched over womanly curves.
He did his best to prevent his gaze from lingering on her breasts, but with the neckline of her surcoat shifting, a flash of pale skin just below her collarbone was strong enticement.
He cursed his wandering attention.
“You are at risk on the fringes of your father’s lands and these are dangerous times.” He fell back upon the impending threat of the Normans who would march on Connacht before long. “Any battle tactician knows the value of an important captive and you, my lady, make a tempting catch. Ah—that is, you would command a fine ransom.”
She kept her eyes trained on her sister, who hurried up the hill with a fistful of her surcoat’s skirts in one hand and a cup of wine in the other. What was it about these ladies of Connacht that they thought nothing of lifting their hems? Hugh did not think he’d ever been a man of great propriety, but earthy manners among beautiful women did not go unnoticed.
His eyes darted back to Sorcha’s legs to relive a delectable memory.
“I do not see a need to fear for my safety and one small mishap in a child’s game is unlikely to persuade me otherwise.” She finished adjusting her veils and brushed back her hair from her shoulders before settling her hands in her lap.
“But you do not think like a warrior to see what an advantage you give your father’s enemies with your exile.” Hugh considered her situation for a moment and then launched the question that desperately needed asking. “Is there any possibility Conn’s father might wish to retrieve his son?”
At the mention of her former lover, Sorcha felt more numb than when she’d first awakened from her faint.
Thankfully, she was saved from having to answer Hugh’s question by Onora’s arrival. With grateful hands, Sorcha took the cup from her sister and murmured her thanks.
“Lady Onora, would you allow us to speak in private a bit longer?” Hugh framed the request politely enough, but his tone made it a command.
Onora looked ready to argue and Sorcha nodded her consent, unwilling for her sister to overhear a conversation she did not wish to have.
“If you are certain?” Onora asked her, not even pretending to take orders from the foreign knight who seemed eager to take command.
“I will be fine. We can speak tonight at the bonfire,” Sorcha assured her.
Below them, the fair was back in progress as if it had never been interrupted. She had hoped to be a part of her family’s world if only for the day, but it seemed even now she was the outsider as she remained on the fringes of the group.
Hugh waited until Onora withdrew before he spoke again.
“I ask out of concern for your safety.” He seated himself beside her while the scent of cinnamon and burning wood rode the breeze.
No doubt a loaf of sweet bread baked nearby.
The fair swelled with attendants as tradesmen and their families finished morning chores to join the feast day. A minstrel strolled the tents with a flute, sending up a sweet tune as he walked. A falconer from her father’s lands had brought a few of his birds to show the children.
“My husband would make no claim to Conn,” she informed Hugh, surprised at how easy it was to speak of the son the rest of the world did not want her to acknowledge.
She would far rather be confronted with questions than chilled by icy silence. If only her father had felt the same way during the time she was with child, Sorcha might have been able to defend herself from his anger and assumptions.
And yes, she still called Edward du Bois her husband since she had every reason to believe he was at the time Conn was conceived. Her father had made sure she knew that marriage had not been legally valid as it was performed by a false priest, but he could not take away the fact that she had good intentions at the time. She would not defend her actions to any man—including Hugh Fitz Henry—only to be called a liar.
“How can you be so sure?” His words were gentle as she stared off into the distance, watching her sister move through the crowd of curious and admiring stares.
Had Sorcha been viewed that way once? She could not recall what it felt like to be the envy of everyone around her, but perhaps she had been too concerned with testing her own mettle and proving herself to her father to notice the way others had looked up to her.
Dragging her attention from her sister, she met Hugh’s gaze.
“My husband is dead.”
Something shifted in his eyes, but she could not read whatever thoughts lurked behind his amber gaze.
“I thought he— That is, your father seemed under the impression that he abandoned you.”
Even after all this time, the knowledge of her father’s disappointment in her still had the power to sting. But she refused to regret the blissful days that had led to her son’s conception and—saints protect him—her son himself.
“I guess, in a way, he did.” Sorcha had known Edward would leave her to wage war upon her countrymen in the south, but he’d sided against her father’s enemies and fully anticipated his triumphant return. She might well hate him for playing her false, but she never would have wished him dead. “He went into battle and did not come home.”
Hugh’s gaze slid away from hers and she watched him follow the progress of a small merlin across the sky, the bird’s chains freed if only for a moment. Below them, the falconer watched it circle along with the small crowd who had gathered about him.
“I do not wish to pain you, Lady Sorcha, but was his body returned to Connacht for burial?”
“Nay.” Her insides chilled at the question and she suspected he knew more about her past than she had realized. “That is yet another reason my father declared my marriage false. But I begin to think you have already heard much of my personal trials.”
Bitterness clogged her throat to think of her father confiding her naive choices to this bold Norman who appeared as if he’d never once doubted himself.
“He said only that the name of your priest proved false, invalidating your union.” Hugh picked up her forgotten flagon of wine and motioned for her to drink. “I hesitate to upset you but if an enemy wishes you harm, we would do well to put a face and a name to him.”
“Well, clearly it cannot be Conn’s father.” Grateful to settle that awkward discussion, she did as he bade and dr
ank deeply. She had feared the attraction she felt for this man, but she had not thought to fear his keen intelligence or the eyes that saw too much. He’d dragged the most sensitive issues into the light, hacking through them with unnerving speed to find the answers he sought.
“You mistake my point.” He plucked at a far-flung corner of her skirts that had strayed close to his leg, his fingers gently rolling the bright length of embroidered blue linen away from him. “If your priest was false and your husband’s body was not returned to you, what reason do you have to trust that he really died?”
Sorcha’s vision blurred for a moment as she considered Hugh’s suggestion, her eyes unable to focus on the movement of his fingers along some curling stitch of floral decoration near her hem. Dizziness assailed her and she had to replace her flagon on the rock beside her.
“My lady?” His touch fell away from her skirt, a fact she could not feel but somehow sensed.
Pins seemed to prick behind her eyes, her world sliding as out of focus as her vision.
“That cannot be.” Everything within her revolted at the idea that pushed Edward’s betrayal to a low depth she had never suspected. “I have struggled to resign myself to the fact that I was duped by a false priest and that Edward might have purposely used such a figure to preside at our nuptials because he did not plan to remain in Connacht. But if he allowed me to think he was dead for a convenient way to not face me—to elude my father’s vengeance—he is a greater coward than I could have ever guessed.”
The world about her spun and she planted her hands upon the rock to steady herself.
“Sorcha.” Hugh’s voice shot through the dizziness, as strong and sure as the man himself. “You should rest after the blow to your head.”
