THE IRISH KNIGHT

by Amy J. Fetzer

  She looked at her parents, her mother standing near her father and both openly wearing their concern. "What I felt for him as a child is dead and buried."

  "But do you care for him?" Raymond sought some shred of tenderness atween the pair. Something that would give them all the chance to be happy about the king's decree, for as much as he wished to fight Richard on the matter, the king was not in England and others would see this match sealed. Then, to compound their troubles, should Prince John learn of it, he could easily kill them both before 'twas done. Without the alliance of two houses and the oaths Connal would gain, Richard's kingdom would slip quickly from his grasp. Raymond's only hope was that if Sinead must marry, 'twould be to a man he trusted and loved, to a man he knew would protect her with his life.

  And not allow her natural defiance to stop him from the task.

  "I say again, daughter…"

  "I heard you, Papa." Sinead tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, then closed her eyes. Do I care for him? 'Twas almost laughable to think on it overlong. Yet she could not ignore the sensations she'd experienced when she'd realized Connal was returning. The hope and joy, the childhood heartache. And upon seeing him again, the desire and need of a woman for a man.

  Strong and powerful, Connal PenDragon was burned into her heart, and though she could not tell if 'twas old memories or new possibilities that ruled her, she recognized her desire for him. 'Twas intense, enough that when he had touched her arm, she'd sweltered beneath the cloak and gown amid the swirl of snow and icy wind.

  "Sinead?" her mother pressed.

  "Aye, of course I care. I have known him most of my life, Mama."

  "He is like a brother to you?" her mother asked.

  Her head whipped around and she gaped at them both. "Connal? Great Goddess Mother, I have never thought of him as a brother." Her hands on her hips, her gaze shifted between her parents. "What are you trying to say?"

  Her parents exchanged a glance.

  "Answer this one question, love," Raymond said. "If you were to choose, and all was right, would you choose Connal?"

  Her eyes widened. "You mean to ask, if he were not cold and bitter, would I choose him? If he would see me as a wanted bride and not a duty price to his king? If he had not accused me of casting on him in the first moments we'd met again … if he'd not broken my heart a half dozen times…" She paced, her body radiating heat as her temper rose. "If he nay longer detested the magic I can wield," she scoffed rudely, "or even the woman I am … if he were all of the man I once glimpsed, then … aye!" She stopped and whirled to face them. "I would choose him."

  Her father grinned.

  Her mother fought a smile.

  Sinead shook her head, her hair cascading over her shoulders. "But he is none of that." Her voice fractured, and briefly she glanced away. What had happened to the boy inside the man? she wondered. "We have naught to begin with. At least you and Father had love."

  "Love takes time, Sinead."

  She looked at them, her tone clipped. "Well, Connal possesses little time. For me, for Ireland, and for the future this alliance will bring us. He gives it and his heart for his duty to the absent king."

  Raymond opened his mouth to argue the point when a knock rattled the door. Before Sinead could stop her, Fionna waved a hand. The wood portal swung wide open.

  Connal stood just beyond the threshold, his garments richly appointed in silver over a green so deep 'twas nearly black.

  His gaze locked with hers and Sinead experienced a sudden hard yank anchored somewhere near her heart. Her breath skipped and rushed. And she recognized the sensation; 'twas the same feeling she'd had at four, at nine, and had banished from her heart for thirteen years.

  A call of the soul.

  She almost hated him for bringing it back when there was little she could do to stop it.

  Connal stood frozen for a moment, stunned again by the ethereal beauty of this woman. "I wish to speak with you, Sinead." He took a single step inside and bowed to Raymond and Fionna. "My lord, my lady. In private, if you please."

  "It does not please me, PenDragon," Sinead said, folding her arms. "We have naught to discuss."

  "There again you are wrong, princess," he said, and the husky sound of his voice coated her with warmth.

  She did not trust it one bit, fie on the man.

  "We have a future, whether you like it or nay."

  Raymond inclined his head to Fionna and they moved to the door.

  "Papa?"

  Raymond regarded her even as Fionna slipped past him and out of the room. "Were you not saying 'twere no new dangers?"

  Sinead's spine straightened, and she lifted her chin, giving her father a hot look before they left, then turning it on Connal.

  "Come, PenDragon." She waved him inside. "Speak your peace, for believe me, I will speak mine."

  "In all my days, Sinead, that I have never doubted."

  "You will not like it."

  His hand on the door latch, he arched a brow. "So, we are to do battle, are we?"

  A strange excitement suddenly coursed through her blood. "Aye, and you'd best not be wagerin' who will win."

  His green eyes sharpened, grew darker. "I have never lost a war, Sinead."

  "Then be prepared, PenDragon. You will taste defeat today."

  Her challenge laid like a gauntlet, Connal carefully closed the door. From the moment he'd stepped inside, his gaze never left her.

  And he'd no desire to cease staring, either.

  Because no matter what he must do, needed to do, Sinead O'Donnel of the house of DeClare, Princess of the Nine Gleanns of North Antrim … made him remember, with one look, that he was a man.

  And witch or nay, she was the most desirable woman in Ireland.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  And this Celtic beauty is yours, a voice whispered in his head.

  Or she would be, when he reasoned with her.

  If that was possible, he thought, and doubted his capabilities, for he'd not expected to be attracted to her. But then, what man would not want such a female for his wife? A woman of beauty and enchantment, Sir Galeron, in his infinite wit, had reminded him of such since those moments on the south shore.

  Connal did not need a reminder. Merely looking at her stirred a man's imagination. Folding his arms over his chest, he studied Sinead, who until a few hours ago had always been a girl in his memory.

  She stood in the center of the solar, pure Irish defiance permeating her like a faery's fire. He knew her as a mischievous child, a troublesome, love-struck adolescent, but now, because of the king's edict, he would know her as a woman.

  Intimately.

  For the rest of his days.

  The thought stuck Connal as almost humorous. He no more wanted to marry than she did. He knew his reasons, but hers? She was older than most brides, though he did not wonder overlong as to why she had not married already. She was stubborn, defiant, and willful. Naught a man needed in his life.

  Where another woman would offer peace and contentment, Sinead offered endless days of turmoil. And fights. She was itching for one now. He could tell in the way she stood, in her tapping foot. His gaze rose slowly from her slippered toe, lingering over her body, lush and shapely inside the green gown. A leather, silver, and gold girdle draped her hips, bringing focus to the smallness of her waist and the graceful curves flowing beneath the fabric. Circling her throat was a gold and silver torc, the head and tail of a dragon adorning the ends and bringing his attention to her bosom nearly spilling from its fitted confinement.

  A fantasy ripe for a man's imagination.

  And that she would be his sent a warm twist of desire racing through him.

  "Why do you look at me like that?"

  The distaste in her tone caught his complete attention. "And just how am I looking?"

  Her hands on her hips, she cocked her head. "Like I am one of Colleen's sweet comfits and you have the
only spoon."

  Connal schooled his features and pushed aside the exotic thoughts flying through his mind. 'Twould not do for this woman to know she aroused him. She had enough power over him with her magic alone. "I gaze upon you as my bride, Sinead."

  "Then cease, for I will not be so."

  He moved toward her. "You cannot stop this marriage."

  She stood her ground. "I can do more than you believe, PenDragon. I am mistress of Croí an Banríon. Not you."

  "'Tis merely your dowry, Sinead," he said, as if they'd had this conversation a dozen times before. "You only hold it in your father's stead—"

  "Do not speak to me like the child I was," she cut in with open disgust. "You know naught of this land, these people. Nor me. And be warned now, knight of Richard, I rule the gleanns. I am chieftain."

  Connal's gaze narrowed and he folded his arms over his chest. "Till we are wed, mayhaps."

  "Nay, now and forever. 'Tis my blood right to protect these people."

  'Twas truth; she did have stronger ties to the land, to its Druid beginnings, but Connal planned to reclaim his own, and this little tantrum of power was not going to stop him. "And so it will become mine as well."

  "You are a fool if you think I will relinquish to you. We are done."

  When she lifted her hand, to no doubt travel elsewhere, he snatched her wrist. Fear flashed in her blues eyes, there and gone so quickly he was not certain he saw it. But he felt her anger, the energy of her, coupled like oil and wine and seeping into him. Two distinct sensations, both powerful, and he fought them. The answering sensation was almost painful. Connal refused to bend to it.

  "You will remain in this chamber and speak with me." His patience was gone, and when she opened her mouth he jerked her closer. "Nay! You owe me this much."

  Sinead battled silent old fears as the heat of his body penetrated her clothing, his strength slipping into her through his grasp on her wrist. It softened her knees and she ignored the meaning of it, the old spirit of her heart trying desperately to escape its cage. She preferred it locked away, and when her senses fell into the warmth and scent of him, she tore from his grip.

  "Whatever debt you believe I need pay has been paid by the cruelty you showed a young girl."

  Old shame filled him and his voice softened. "'Twas years ago."

  "Aye, and done atween us. Yet whilst you walked away from Ireland I remained faithful, and we have survived well without the touch of the king or you."

  "Be that as it may, the king's touch had returned when he put his seal on that order." He pointed to the parchment he'd given Raymond and that now lay on the carved desk. "You have had your time to play lord—"

  She inhaled. "Play!" Goddess above, she never wanted to slap a person so much afore now.

  He went on as if she had not spoken. "My duty is to Richard first and I will obey … as will you!"

  Sinead's eyes flared and the fire in the hearth rose and licked the mantel.

  He glanced at the blaze, then to her, saying, "By God, you are just like your mother. Cease that afore you burn us to the ground."

  Sinead waved and the fire went out completely. Connal blinked at the curls of smoke, but she cared little. She would not wed a man who saw her only as a step to please his king, to more riches and power. "You cannot have this castle and lands without my consent. And Richard knows this."

  His look was infinitely patient. "Hence, the marriage."

  Her hands on her hips, she glared. "'Twill be a wee bit of trouble doing that without a willing bride."

  "Willing or nay, you are only a woman; you have no say in the matter."

  Sinead growled under her breath, the corners of her eyes lifting like a cat's, and for a moment, Connal thought she had never looked more magnificent. Till she spoke.

  "That asinine, pompous statement proves you even think like the English! Your own mother ruled. As did my grandmother, Egrain, and hers afore. Take no comfort that you can succeed with that argument in this house." She looked him up and down. "I know not who stands afore me and calls himself a son of Ireland."

  Her words gouged at his pride and Connal held supreme control over his outrage. "You know naught of me," he ground out between tightly clenched teeth, glowering down at her. "I have not laid eyes on you since you were but nine!"

  "And what I see does not please."

  "For the love of Saint Bridget, why do you not simply say it all and be done with it!"

  "You deny that you are Irish with every word."

  He frowned.

  "You speak in their tongue, dress in their ways," she said in Gaelic. "You command an army who has done naught but kill by the order of an English king who can't remain in his own country long enough to keep it. A man who has not set one foot in his kingdom except to take his crown afore hieing his grand self to the east to conquer in the name of his God." She inhaled slowly, forcing her temper and tone down into calm. "Why would you follow such a man and, Goddess forbid, kill for him?"

  Connal held her gaze with his own, the uncertain question in her voice stinging him with the tiny plea to understand. She would not. No one would. For he would never reveal why he fought so hard for Richard. Never reveal to her the truth of his life.

  "My reasons are my own and not your concern.

  Sinead's brows knitted softly and she wondered at the emotion passing over his features just then, before he closed her out. "Your knighthood has become your badge, but 'tis the only one I see you wear. And it has made you the unwelcomed son in your own land."

  He looked away, and a muscle in his throat worked as he swallowed repeatedly. Sinead felt his agony and experienced a bruising to her soul, a shadow she dared not examine. There is darkness in him, she realized. "You hurt more than the people by returning."

  He turned his head, scowling defense branding his handsome face. "I have hurt no one." Except you, his conscience shouted.

  She stepped back, giving him a thorough glance up and down. She had made mistakes in her past, but clearly he was not willing to admit to his own. "The trail is here and you will find it, PenDragon," she said cryptically. "Or it will find you."

  His brows furrowed as he gazed down at her. Something was very wrong. The bitterness in her tone was unmistakable. This was not the Sinead he remembered. As a youth, she'd been carefree and wild and cared naught for what tomorrow would bring. 'Twas one thing—likely the only thing he'd admired about her. That she lived for the day and that day alone. Aye, she was a woman full grown now, but what had occurred these past years to banish that enthusiasm for life?

  "I will not spend my life with a man who can so easily turn his back on his countrymen."

  "Again you speak of falsehoods."

  "Do I now?" she asked and stepped back, closed her eyes, and raised her arms.

  God above, she was conjuring again. "Sinead," he warned, "do not do this."

  "Frightened, warrior?" she goaded yet kept her eyes closed, her hands out, her palms up.

  Connal wanted to grab her and shake her, make her stop, his anger brewing stronger as her power hummed on the air. Yet he could not tear his gaze from her as the space between her hands shivered and sparkled. He blinked, curiosity keeping him rooted to the floor. His attention slipped to her face, the serenity in her features, the beautiful fall of her red hair. Something wove over her, through her, when she cast. A peace he could see and a wish he could touch it. Earth, wind, fire, and water bent to her will, but Sinead herself, he realized with stunning clarity, was an element of nature.

  How did a man not feel inferior to such a woman?

  The air undulated, glittering with a silver light, and Connal blinked, lowering his gaze as a silver sword appeared, lying across her palms.

  His eyes flared.

  Oh God above.

  'Twas the sword King Henry had presented him the day he was knighted. A duplicate of DeClare's, yet while Raymond's hilt was studded with gems, this one bore Celtic knots, the design weaving over the hilt and up th
e blade a bit. The top third was serrated like Raymond's, yet in the center of the cross guard was a dragon with green jeweled eyes.

  He lifted his gaze to hers. "Where did you get that?" he asked softly.

  "Exactly where you suspect, PenDragon." Sorrow colored her tone, and Connal searched his memory. Nay. She hadn't been there when he'd thrown it down at his father's feet. When he and Raymond had tried to convince him not to leave Ireland to become a mercenary after Henry's death. He'd learned more than of the death of his king that day. He'd learned secrets and lies from the people he'd trusted the most. And that a once favored knight of Henry—was meaningless, scorned in the next royal court.

  "Nay, Sinead. 'Twas in England. You were not there."

  She shrugged as if it did not matter. "Yet I carried it on the beach this day."

  He did not wonder why he did not recognize the blade afore. 'Twas her he saw on the shore, and naught else.

  Sinead lifted the weapon, its sharp edge gleaming in the candlelight.

  Connal made no move toward it.

  "Tell me now that you have not given your back to your heritage. You have discarded Ireland as easily as you discarded this." She started to bring it to her side and he stopped her.

  "Why have you kept it?" The words wrenched from his throat.

  "If you do not know, then you do not deserve it." He reached, and Sinead stepped back. "'Tis mine for the keeping, PenDragon."

  "What use is a weapon to you?"

  "This belonged to a prince, and I see he is dead."

  "Aye, the prince is no more, but the man lives and will be your husband."

  "Nay! The man I see afore me is a traitor to his people."

  Instantly heat rose through his body, rage pulling at his chest. His fingers curled into tight fists.

  His knuckles cracked, one at a time, in the silence. His look was murderous, and fear danced in pinpricks over her skin.

  "Dare you speak to me thusly!" he shouted, advancing a step. "I have killed men for less of a lie!"