Silence reigned for the longest moment, everyone appearing as if in shock. But Triona had never known such relief as she raced to the tower to meet Ronan when he exited the doorway.
“Your arm…” she murmured, blanching at the blood oozing from the gash through his clothing.
“It would have been far worse, woman, if not for those fine lungs of yours.” His breathing hard, sweat dripping from his face, Ronan still managed to give her a smile. “Your dream was wrong. You were able to help me after all—”
“Seize the O’Byrne rebel!”
As the king’s furious command echoed around the yard, Triona looked unbelievingly at Ronan. But she had no chance to say a word as a dozen Norman guards suddenly descended upon them. Triona was shoved roughly out of the way as Ronan was overpowered despite his fierce struggling.
“What…what is this?” she cried, rushing to Donal who appeared just as stunned as she. Instead her answer came from King John, his decree directed to everyone though he glared at Triona.
“You’ve won your justice, young woman, and now I will have mine. I declare Ronan Black O’Byrne a traitor to the Crown and hereby condemn him to hang!”
“No!”
The roar had come from Donal MacMurrough. All eyes turned to the chieftain as he drew his sword, the loud buzz that had greeted the king’s pronouncement swiftly become a shocked hush. Every MacMurrough and O’Byrne likewise drew his weapon, their grim faces now turned to the irate king.
“You raise your sword against me, Donal of Ferns?”
“Aye, my lord king, in this matter I do. Ronan O’Byrne and his clansmen came into the city under my protection, and so they will leave. Rebel or no, the man is the betrothed of my niece. She loves him and, therefore, I stand with him this day. If you proceed, you will fight all of us.”
Triona had never seen so many gaping mouths, the king’s courtiers and officials taking a few steps backward as if ready to lift their fine silk tunics and run like rabbits. Meanwhile, every Norman knight drew his sword, clearly eager for a fight. Several began to close ranks around the king to protect him. But King John waved them back, a dark brow lifting shrewdly at Donal MacMurrough.
“You’ve always served me loyally, Donal of Ferns. Always striven to help maintain order in this unruly land, especially among your people.”
“I have, sire.”
“And you give me your oath that your fealty will continue, no matter this”—he glanced with distaste at Ronan—“unpleasant dispute?”
“I do, sire.”
“Very well. I renounce my sentence of death upon the rebel Black O’Byrne and grant him safe conduct from the city. But I vow,” King John added swiftly, fixing a warning gaze upon Ronan as his captors reluctantly released him, “that if you’re ever caught raiding against my vassals, you will hang.” The king then turned his eyes to Triona, who raised her chin and stared back at him though she wanted nothing more than to run to Ronan.
“You’re aware, young woman, that you now are the heiress to one of my richest fiefs?”
“Aye.”
“Then you can understand if I say you will lose all rights to the land if you marry this man. I’ll not have an Irish rebel as lord of Naas.”
“Aye, I understand, so you might as well find some other de Roche to take it off my hands.” That said, Triona couldn’t hold herself back any longer. She ran to Ronan and flung her arms around his neck. “I’d trade all of Éire to become the bride of Black O’Byrne,” she announced for everyone to hear, smiling into Ronan’s eyes as he embraced her. “My only regret is that I can’t give back to him the lands which are rightfully his.”
“Enough!” King John shouted, outraged by Triona’s defiance. “Take these rebels from Dublin at once, Donal MacMurrough, or I promise I’ll hang them all!”
The chieftain hastened over to them, saying in a low firm voice, “I suggest you mount your horses.” But when Ronan began to veer Triona toward his stallion, she balked, pursing her lips to give a sharp whistle. Immediately she heard an answering whinny, courtiers scurrying out of the way as Laeg came galloping to her side.
“Aye, Laeg, we’ll soon be gone from this foul place,” she murmured, her heart doing a flip-flop when Ronan’s strong hands went around her waist to give her a boost onto her horse’s back. “Your arm must not be hurting you too badly if you can lift me with such ease,” she teased him as he mounted, the heat in his eyes assuring her that he was hardly maimed. Growing flushed, she sobered as she looked out across the yard.
“What is it, Triona?”
“My bowcase.” Spying the leather sheath clutched in a tall knight’s hand, she spouted, “He has it, there! And I’ll not be leaving without it.”
“Give her the damned thing!” King John commanded, the man nearly stumbling over his long legs in his rush to obey.
“My thanks, sire,” she said sincerely as she shouldered her bowcase, the familiar weight a comfort. Yet she couldn’t resist adding, “I hope swift winds carry you soon and safely across the water…and far, far away from Éire.”
“Triona…” Ronan murmured with a warning frown as Donal MacMurrough bowed his head to his king, then led their huge party back through the gates. But once outside the castle grounds Ronan smiled, the warm teasing look Triona so loved back in his eyes. “Did anyone ever tell you that for an angel, you’ve got a bit of the devil in you, too?”
She snorted. “Devil? I gave the man a good Irish blessing, is all.” Triona laughed as Ronan shook his head, Caitlin soon falling back from her father’s side to join them as they rode through the bustling city. But they still had a good way to go when Ronan suddenly pulled up on the reins and called for a halt.
“Don’t tell me Triona forgot something back at the castle,” Donal said with tight-lipped exasperation.
“Not at all,” Ronan reassured him, dismounting. He gestured to the stone church they’d just passed. “It’s time your niece and I were wed.”
“Here? In Dublin?” Triona blurted, her emerald eyes grown wide.
“Why not? I’m sure the priest knows the right words just the same as those in Glendalough.”
“But Aud isn’t here, Ronan,” she began.
“Aud will understand,” he said firmly, reaching up for her. “Now come.”
Still Triona hesitated, the stubborn set of her chin leading Ronan to wonder what she was going to demand of him next. He had a good inkling when she glanced first at Caitlin, then at Donal, and finally back to him again, soft pleading in her eyes.
“I know it might be hard for you, Ronan, but I’m asking you here and now to make peace with the clan MacMurrough. Not just a truce for a day but lasting—”
“Done.”
She gaped at him, clearly astonished. “Truly?”
Ronan nodded, the deep gratitude he felt toward the MacMurrough chieftain far outweighing any of the hatred that had gone before. Without his aid, he might never have gotten into the city to find Triona, and that to him was worth any price.
“On behalf of the O’Byrnes of Glenmalure, I offer peace.” Ronan somberly met Donal’s eyes. “I hope that the MacMurroughs will accept—”
“I accept,” the chieftain stated, his expression just as solemn though there was a hint of humor in his eyes. “Now if you’ll kindly make this willful niece of mine an honest woman, I’d be a happy man. And quickly, Ronan, before King John changes his mind.”
Their wedding was probably the briefest on record in that lofty church, considering the long weeks it had taken Ronan to get Triona to say her vows. A priest’s blessing, a fervent kiss, then they were mounting their horses again. No more than a few moments later they had left the city, MacMurroughs and O’Byrnes riding south together in the waning afternoon sun until the time finally came for the two clans to go their separate ways.
It was an awkward parting but heartfelt, hope that all would continue to be well between them on everyone’s mind. Especially Caitlin’s, whose eyes were brimming with tears
as she brought her steed close to Triona’s to give her a hug.
“Will we see each other?” the young woman asked brokenly, Triona giving her a reassuring wink.
“Aye, I’m sure of it.”
Then, with an embarrassed laugh, Caitlin began to dismount until Triona stopped her.
“But this is Niall’s horse.”
“Exactly, cousin.” Triona glanced at Ronan and her uncle, pleased at least to see that the two men weren’t frowning. She leaned forward and whispered in Caitlin’s ear. “Niall can’t fail to come to visit if he wants to get his horse back, now can he?”
Caitlin’s brilliant smile was a fine thing to see, Triona wondering to herself how long it might be before her pretty blond cousin would be joining them in Glenmalure. Not too long if she had anything to say about it. And, of course, there was Maire who so wanted a husband…
“Playing the matchmaker again?”
She started, meeting Ronan’s eyes as the MacMurroughs rode away. “You object?”
“Would it matter if I did?”
She could hear that he was teasing, but he looked serious all the same. “Of course it would, husband. I wouldn’t want to do anything to displease you. Don’t forget I just promised to love and obey, though…”
“Though what, Triona O’Toole?”
“Triona O’Byrne, you mean.”
He chuckled, his slate gray eyes taking on a most lusty cast. “Aye, so it is now.”
“Well,” she continued, growing quite flustered and a bit embarrassed, too, that her O’Byrne clansmen were all glancing sideways at each other behind them. “I don’t expect to have any trouble at all with the first one, but the second—”
“I’ll settle for love, woman. That’s enough for me.” Ronan reached out suddenly and grabbed her to him, kissing her so soundly that Triona nearly lost her balance and fell from her horse. But at his next words, she wondered if he’d done so on purpose just to give him unfair advantage.
“How about a race back to Glenmalure? And let’s say whoever wins can console the loser—”
“Ha! You’ll not be consoling me!” she cried, kicking Laeg into a gallop. “You know I’ll beat you, Ronan O’Byrne!”
“I dare you to try, woman!” he called after her, their laughter ringing out as they rode headlong into the wild Wicklow hills.
The End
Read on for an exciting excerpt from Miriam Minger’s Wild Roses, Book 2 in The O’Byrne Brides Series!
About the Author
Miriam Minger is the bestselling author of emotion-packed action adventure historical romances that sweep you from lusty medieval times to Regency England—and with some dangerously seductive 18th century tales in between. With two dozen books published in five languages, Miriam is also the author of contemporary romance, romantic suspense, inspirational suspense, and children’s books. She is the winner of several Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Awards—including Best Medieval Historical Romance of the Year for The Pagan’s Prize—and a two-time RITA Award Finalist for The Brigand Bride and Captive Rose.
Miriam loves to create stories that make you feel the passion, live and breathe the adventure, laugh and cry, and that touch your heart.
For a complete listing of books as well as excerpts and news about upcoming releases, and to connect with Miriam:
Visit Miriam’s Website
Join Miriam on Facebook
Follow Miriam on Twitter
Subscribe to Miriam’s Newsletter
Now enjoy an excerpt from Miriam Minger’s Wild Roses, the breathtaking sequel to Wild Angel! And don’t miss Wild Moonlight, Book 3 in The O’Byrne Brides Series!
Wild Roses
Excerpt © Copyright Miriam Minger
All Rights Reserved
Prologue
Ireland, 1212
Near the Hill of Tara, Meath
The moment he ducked his head inside the fire-blackened hut, a scream rent the air.
Terrified. Shrill. Fading into frantic whimpers as the girl, her eyes filled with stark fear, clung to her weeping mother.
Cursing again that he’d come too late, Duncan FitzWilliam could see the girl was dying. Thirteen years old, perhaps, no more, already her tear-stained cheeks bore an ominous pallor, as glaring to the eye as the brilliant red blood soaking the lower half of her gown. Forcing back the fury that threatened to engulf him, he moved slowly to the girl’s pallet but stopped when she made to shriek anew.
“Woman, tell her I mean no harm,” he said to the mother who stared up at him with fear in her own eyes though she hugged her child fiercely. “My men and I—we’ve come to help.”
“Help, lord?” Her voice hoarse, breaking, the Irishwoman looked from him to her ravaged daughter’s face, her work-worn fingers caressing an ashen cheek with heartrending tenderness. “You can’t help my Uta…not you, not the priest…not the angels above—ah, God!”
As the woman’s sobs filled the hut, her dying daughter’s whimpers become as weak as her labored breathing, Duncan felt his rage grow hot and deep once more that an innocent should so suffer.
Yet thus it had always been. The innocent suffered and the ruthless trod them like dust under their heels.
But not this time. Not on his land. Not while he held breath.
“Come.” He knelt and gathered the girl in his arms before the Irishwoman could protest, and so gently that she stared at him in teary-eyed astonishment. She could but hasten after him as he rose and carried his broken burden outside into a spring morning so gloriously sunny that it seemed to mock her sorrow.
Mock, too, the ring of smoldering huts, sunlight dancing upon scorched earth and slaughtered sheep and chickens. Fortunately for the Irish tenants, most had escaped into freshly sown fields of wheat and rye when the three rogue Norman knights had come upon the tiny settlement. Fled for their lives, a few panicked souls reserving enough presence of mind to alert him at Longford Castle. But it hadn’t been swiftly enough for young Uta, whose slender body had borne the worst of the knights’ brutal attack while her mother had been made to watch helplessly.
“Clement!”
“Yes, Baron, I come! I come!” A stout man with a wide, kindly face came running, his monk’s robe held above his knees. “I’ve done what I can for the few wounded—”
“Good. Tend to the girl and give comfort to her mother. Take them away from here, to the stream. The girl should have some peace—”
“Bastards…”
Duncan glanced at the Irishwoman, her face filled with such hatred that he knew she had spied the three prisoners slumped to their knees near the horses.
“Unholy bastards! God’s curse upon you! God’s curse for what you’ve done to my Uta!”
She flew at the closest prisoner so suddenly that Duncan couldn’t have stopped her, but he hadn’t thought to try. Nor did he signal for any of his men to wrest her away from the bound Norman knight who bellowed in pain as she raked her nails down his face.
As the woman’s enraged shrieks filled the air and the two other prisoners clamored for mercy, horses stamping their hooves and whinnying in fright at the din, Duncan cradled the girl who moaned piteously in his arms. It was more for her sake than the prisoners’ that Duncan finally nodded for one of his own knights, Gerard de Barry, to stop the frenzied attack.
A moment longer and he had no doubt the woman would have scratched out the Norman’s eyes which, in truth, made no difference to him. His prisoners would have no use for sight where they were bound.
“Go, Clement, take the girl,” he quietly bade the friar. With a cry the mother shrugged free of Gerard’s hold and ran to clutch her daughter’s limp hand as Clement set out for the stream, though just before they disappeared into the trees, the Irishwoman glanced over her shoulder and met Duncan’s eyes.
He saw fear no more, only a burning look of comprehension as if she sensed what lay ahead. And a flicker of gratitude. But Duncan turned away, his purpose not wholly to avenge her dying daughter. His
grip tightening upon the hilt of his sword, he gave the barest nod to his men. At once the prisoners were hauled to their feet, all three swaying more from drunkenness than any rude handling.
Fools. Sotted with ale, they had raped and plundered, and so they had been captured, sleeping off their cruel deeds along the same stream where Clement had taken the girl. For such witless folly alone, they deserved no pity.
“Hang them.”
Duncan’s growled command might have been a dousing of ice-cold water for how sober the prisoners suddenly appeared, their expressions incredulous as thick twists of rope were yanked down over their heads.
“M-my lord, ssurely you misspoke,” cried out one stricken knight, only to wheeze and cough at the noose pulled taut around his neck. In desperation another man began to fight his captors, while the third, looking the worse for the Irishwoman’s attack upon his face, nonetheless drew himself up in belligerent fury.
“You cannot hang us without a trial, FitzWilliam! We’ve rights, damn you, not like these Irish dogs you treat as if they were your own kind!”
“Rights?” Duncan’s laugh was harsh. “You lost all rights, man, when you chose to take up arms two years ago against King John.” Unmoved that one of the doomed knights began to retch over himself, Duncan watched grimly as the ropes were tossed over a massive oak limb. “Pity that you didn’t flee to France then with the earls de Lacy and their traitorous vassals instead of remaining to wreak havoc upon my land—”
“Your land, you half-Scots bastard?” His eyes bulging in rage, the man’s voice rose to a rasping scream. “Walter de Lacy’s land, no matter that accursed king across the water parceled it out to the likes of you. And there’s scores more like us in Ireland who’ll not let you forget it!”
“Then they’ll join you in hell. No one destroys what is mine, or does harm to those under my protection and lives to tell of it. No one.”
Duncan wasn’t surprised by the vehement oaths hurled at him, nor at how quickly they ceased in stricken disbelief when he glanced at Gerard de Barry, the tall, russet-haired knight shouting an order to the men holding a trio of impatient horses. Sharp slaps on the rump were heard, then the ropes sprang taut. Duncan did not take his eyes from the three Normans as they writhed and jerked high in the air, legs kicking, tongues swelling, and faces turning blue.
Lords of Ireland II Page 149
