THE IRISH KNIGHT

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "Nay," she finally said, releasing a soft sigh, then looked at him. "There is no one."

  But there had been, Connal thought, for the sharp agony in her eyes spoke of deep wounds. And he felt them, not knowing from whence they came, yet he had felt the cuts to her soul that had not healed. The sensation of it surprised him and he looked away, uncomfortable. To care too deeply, he'd learned, made him vulnerable. He could not afford such a luxury. Death usually followed.

  "Good," he said, looking out over the castle folk, his voice brisk. "I did not want to have to fight another man for you."

  "Goddess forbid."

  Only his gaze shifted to hers, pinning her. "Make no mistake, Sinead, I will."

  Unexpected tenderness welled inside her, only to crash as he said, "You are mine."

  Her shoulders went back. "I am no man's possession."

  "Many wish to possess you, or kill you for what you are."

  "I am what I am for them." She gestured to the people. "For the land. I've little use for magic to better my life, yet 'tis part of me, my heart, my blood, my soul." She stared up at him, wishing he could understand and wondering where the boy who once did had gone to die. "And men wish to possess my gifts, but not the woman. I am well versed in the dangers, PenDragon."

  "Use my name, for God's sake."

  "Connal was a boy I once loved. PenDragon is a man I do not care to know."

  He flinched as if she'd slapped him yet kept his gaze even. "You will know me, Sinead. Well." He inched close enough that his leg brushed hers. "As a wife knows her husband."

  'Twas his expression, almost predatory, that sent prickles of heat spiraling down her arms. "We are not destined, knight. In our youth, we shared hurt and anger; now 'tis replaced with a fresh divide you have brought us with your English thinking. I see no benefit from this to Ireland. Or to me."

  She moved around him and went to see to the preparations.

  The scent of roses and spice left in her wake, Connal watched her, thoughts and feelings colliding upon one another. His curiosity rode him so hard that he wanted to drag her into privacy right now and demand she tell him about this man she was to wed. Willingly. And yet a whispered voice told him Sinead would offer naught. Naught but insults, he reminded, his anger over her accusations rising above all else.

  He gripped the goblet, his gaze following her as she instructed her clansmen. And it struck him briefly that even in her elegance, she did not look out of place with the servants, that she teased them, praised them, yet was not above lending a hand. As she was now, crouched on the floor to release a table leg caught in the stone. God above, she was a walking contradiction of womanhood.

  Nahjar approached. "You are a most fortunate man, Sajin."

  Connal let out a long-suffering sigh, wondering over the fortunes of being the only man in King Richard's service who would many a witch for his liege.

  "She has fire and heart."

  "Of that I have no doubt." Connal finished off his wine and briefly wondered if she'd bring that excitement to their bed.

  "Do not let your anger color your judgment, Sajin."

  Lowering the goblet, Connal looked at Nahjar. He'd always taken Nahjar's intuitions to heart, for rarely had he been wrong. "I am not."

  Nahjar folded his arms over his chest and scoffed. The not-so-subtle sound told Connal he was fooling no one. Not even himself. For when he looked at Sinead, much more than anger clouded his opinion.

  * * *

  Sir Galeron was captivated. Completely. By the castle, the beauty of the land, and the woman who ruled them. Accepting that Lady Sinead was lord here was easy for Galeron. His grandmother was a Scot, and she'd ruled her clan till her death, with an iron fist and a heavy dose of humor. And he found a great deal humorous about the present situation. Especially in the way Connal kept staring at Lady Sinead, though he did not want to be caught looking. And what man here could take his eyes off her? She was exquisite, the light dusting of freckles across her nose intriguing him, and if she were not entangled with the king's order, he would have sought her hand the instant he clapped eyes on her.

  'Twould have been a false hope, that, for Connal possessed her attention. And she did not like it, he could tell. She'd look at the man, then shake her head over the fact that she had bothered. Yet after hearing a bit of the conversation the two had in the solar, Galeron decided there was more atween these two than either suspected. And he was enjoying the bloody hell out of Connal's discomfort.

  'Twas as if he was seeking flaws in her where there were none to be found. Even in the celebration of his return, she'd left no pleasure unanswered. By God, in the embrace of an Irish winter they had dined this night like kings. Mutton, venison, seasoned quail eggs, cream-filled comfits, and a splendid array of exotic dried fruits from the east from Connal's stores had graced the castle table. The platters were heaping, wine flowed, and amid the peal of laughter, music breezed over the festivities like a gentle cloud. It had been a long time since any of them had been treated so well, yet it did little to lighten Connal's entangled mood.

  But then, PenDragon had a reputation for not giving an inch of battleground. And the cause of his suffering was perched on the edge of a chair, hanging on his every word. Galeron let the monopoly of her go on longer than he should have, he knew, but 'twas simply too amusing to see Connal lose his control to a woman. Especially when months of torture had not done so.

  He glanced at his comrade and shrugged, then turned his attention to the Lady Sinead.

  "Connal," Branor whispered close to his left. "'Tis bad enough that Nahjar strikes fear in these folk, but if you continue to glare at her, I seriously believe the earl will take offense."

  Connal schooled his features and wished he could hear. She was ignoring him, blatantly. Her head tipped close as Galeron murmured into her ear to be heard above the carousing in the hall. As her hand caught her hair back, he watched her expression grow from anticipation to a slow smile as Galeron spoke. Then she laughed delicately, as if she had not shredded his honor in the solar that afternoon, as if she had not called him traitor and told him to leave his homeland. It ground down on his pride and could not help the heat of impotent anger seething through him.

  Branor cleared his throat as another reminder, and Connal sought a needed distraction. He took a step back, leaning his shoulder on the mantel and watching her people celebrate with his. Beneath the glow of a hundred candles, the castle walls were alive with color, warmed with tapestries and banners of cloth draping the ceilings. Children lounged on a rug left of the hearth as two older boys played a game of chess. A few inches from Connal, a black cat lay perched on the mantel, its tail swinging slowly, its green eyes shifting. The elegant creature turned its head, its disdainful stare pinning him. Connal shook his head, looking at the crowd.

  Croí an Banríon was a gem tucked in the mists. With its west wall to the sea and its position on the hill, the castle was impenetrable. From the parapet he could walk the entire perimeter and see for a hundred leagues. Straight-walled, with three levels aboveground, the ancient stones were the heart of its construction, the rock base aged and weathered. The masons had rebuilt it in nearly the same fashion as it was five hundred years before, with corridors and stairs leading up and down from the main level and four towers facing the four elements. The hearth was fire, faced to the south, the north to the land, the earth, west to the water, the sea, and east to the moors, where the icy wind skated across the rocky earth and slammed into the tallest wall.

  'Twas a castle built on magical lands, for a sorceress of the greatest power.

  "PenDragon?"

  Connal looked up and met her gaze. He loathed that she smiled so sweetly.

  "Galeron tells me you were wounded?"

  "More than once," the knight said, and Connal shot him a quelling look.

  "Aye."

  "When and how?"

  Connal frowned. Her concern seemed more like eager curiosity. "I was in battle." He shrugged. "Wou
nds are the risk."

  "But where did you take the wound?" Her gaze slid over him, and Connal experienced a sudden hard rush in his veins.

  "In my leg," he said, and her features dropped briefly with disappointment. "Would you rather it be my heart?"

  "Be it you who would ask such a thing," she scoffed. "'Twas mere curiosity."

  There is more to this, he thought. "Soon, lass, I will show you each one," he said softly, and his voice caressed the distance between them.

  Sinead flushed with embarrassment at his meaning. "I'd prefer that you did not, my lord. You wear them well enough on the outside."

  He scowled at that.

  "My lady," Branor jumped in, "do you not fear attack here? You are far from GleannTaise and without an army."

  She was taken aback. "I beg to differ, Sir Branor. Though not as strong in numbers as PenDragon's, 'tis sizable and well trained."

  "Who leads? You?"

  She shook her head, giving him a patient smile. "Monroe." She gestured, and the tall dark-haired man moved to her side. "This is the captain of the guard, PenDragon. Words of combat are his familiar talk."

  Monroe looked down at her, the corner of his mouth jerking shortly. "My lady's safety is my duty now."

  "And I know I make it difficult, Monroe." She rose and touched his arm. "You have been a rather good sport about it all."

  Connal's gaze flicked between the pair. Monroe was an Irishman, with massive shoulders, and though his hair needed shearing, 'twas easy to see the friendship Sinead bore him.

  "You have made me a patient man."

  "Tolerant, would you not add?"

  He grinned.

  Connal frowned.

  "War is an inevitability, my lady," Branor said.

  She looked at the black-haired knight, and in a voice strong and clear and filled with conviction, she said, "Not in the gleanns. Not if I can stop it." Her gaze fell on Connal, and she said, "I will leave you to your tankards."

  Connal nodded, saying naught as his men begged her to remain a little longer.

  "Nay, nay, enjoy the comforts here," she said as she moved away, tossing over her shoulder, "I have other duties, you know. The Fey Sidhe to tend, brownies to root out. Stars to make," she said, waving elegantly toward the sky.

  "Sinead," Connal said in warning, and could not help but smile at his men, Branor especially, gaping in confusion, not knowing if she was teasing or nay.

  She paused and twisted, her blue gown wrapping her body as she looked back over her shoulder. Her gaze went immediately to Connal's. Her expression made no excuse, but 'twas her smile, he thought, that came from the depths of her.

  And the impact of it nearly knocked him to the rushes. His attention remained riveted to her as she took the stairs, till she disappeared around the curve of the wall. Connal knew she slept in the uppermost tower, close to the stars, and the image of her in her bed would keep him awake half the night.

  * * *

  Sinead watched like a helpless child as the sword pierced his side and drove deep. Blood seeped from the wound as he pulled the sword out, tossing it aside before he fell to his knees, then to the ground. Where was his armor? Where were his men? His hand clasped over the gaping wound, blood flowed swiftly over his fingers and soaked the ground. His moan of agony cut her in two, bitten off by pride. He reached for someone, tried to rise, and she heard her name whispered on his lips. Then he fell back, his final breath rattling his chest till 'twas empty and hollow.

  Sinead sat upright in her bed, the last of her scream echoing in the stone chamber. Connal!

  She covered her face with her hands and took slow, deep breaths. Nay. Not again. She trembled down to her toes and swallowed, catching her breath and the heart that was lodged in her throat. She sniffled and swiped at the tears on her cheeks, angrily shoving her hair back over her shoulders.

  Perspiration glistened on her skin and she tossed back the blankets and furs. 'Twas little relief and she left the bed. Her hand trembled as she reached for her robe. Tying the sash, she grabbed a velvet blanket, throwing it over her shoulders. She paced.

  For all her power she could not stop the dreams. The day her magic returned to her, they had begun again and the blissful years of innocence were long gone. Dreams of peril woke her often, dreams of happy events and coming storms. She never ignored them. They always came true.

  "My lady?"

  Sinead tipped her head and looked around the drape hanging from the bedpost. "Come closer, Kiarae. I am fine."

  The faery fluttered a tiny bit around the heavy cloth and peered. "You screamed."

  Sinead's eyes widened. "Did I wake anyone below?"

  Kiarae shook her head, then came to settle on the coverlet. "You should tell."

  "Nay, do not ask that. 'Tis toying with fate and destiny to know what is to come." She shook her head. The dreams ruled her when they came, and she had learned that she could only offer warnings, for the trouble she saw was never clear and precise.

  But this time 'twas Connal. And he'd died. Somehow she felt 'twas her fault, her doing. Great Goddess, she was only thankful she did not see him in her dreams whilst he battled in the east. She'd have never slept for the past years. But she'd known he was coming here the instant he stepped on Irish soil. For this one vision had begun in earnest, and the goddess was telling her to be careful. To mayhaps do something to stop this prophecy.

  He would never believe her. None but her parents had known of the dreams. She'd experienced few before her magic was bound and was too young to grasp what they meant. She could hardly recall them now. Yet after her mother took her magic, one final vision came, faint and disjointed. She had not understood any of it then. But her father had, and it had saved Sinead's life.

  What could she do for Connal? He would take the warnings in bitterness, she thought, and discard them. As he had his armor.

  The dream flashed in her mind, his features still with death, blood pooling on the ground. Suddenly she wrapped the velvet blanket tightly about her shoulders and moved to the door.

  "My lady? There are many men in the castle this night."

  "They will not see me," she said and left the chamber, chanting a concealing spell as she quickly took the staircase to the parapet, her bare feet slapping the frozen stone. But the sensation of helplessness beat at her soul, overwhelmed her, and she burst through the door, rushing to the wall and gripping the stone ledge. She inhaled deeply, the icy wind bruising her face and making her eyes sting. It did naught to banish the dream.

  It came again and again, with horrifying clarity, as if demanding she see what was not there. Tears choked her throat and she bowed her head, fighting back a scream and trying to empty her mind to the call.

  The wind whipped her hair free, snapping it like cloth.

  Nay. Nay. He cannot die. He cannot, she pleaded.

  "Sinead?"

  She whipped around, gripping the blanket. From the darkness, Connal emerged like a dragon from its blackened cave. He stopped, his gaze raking over her.

  "By God, woman, you think to freeze to death to avoid marriage to me."

  She shook her head, unable to push words past her throat.

  His gaze fell to her bare feet. In a stride he was inches from her, sweeping his cloak from his shoulders and onto hers.

  Then he lifted her in his arms and headed toward the stairs.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  "Nay! I do not want to go below."

  He did not break stride. "You will."

  "Put me down," she said, and the fracture in her voice made him stop. She tipped her head back and moonlight shone down upon her tearstained face. His scowl softened and he moved to the far wall and crouched, setting her on the stone.

  Hurriedly he wrapped her bare feet in his cloak. "Minutes, Sinead, that is all I will allow of this."

  "You are not my keeper, PenDragon."

  "Well then, you need one, woman. God, this is absurd."


  At least the corridor of stone flanked them, breaking the pounding of the wind. Guards were a few yards away, warming themselves at the pot fires, and paid them no mind as he rested his back against the wall, his elbows braced on bent knees.

  She shivered and snuggled into the velvet, wondering why her concealing spell had failed. Obviously, she decided a moment later, she'd not been concentrating enough.

  "This is ludicrous."

  "You were up here," she accused, staring at the spot near her toes.

  "Only to inspect the fortifications."

  She made a disgruntled sound. "Oh, aye, do not trust that we have not been breached in centuries, eh?"

  "'Twas a precaution, not an affront to you."

  "You not only distrust me but those loyal to me."

  "I have not been here long enough to pass judgment."

  Her gaze snapped to his. "They would die for me, PenDragon, as I would for them."

  "Well, you shall accomplish that out here for naught but stubbornness." He chaffed his arms, and she realized he'd been in the East so long he was unaccustomed to the cold. She extended her arm, rotating her hand in a quick curl over the stone near him. Fire appeared.

  Connal flinched and cursed, drawing his feet back.

  As if scooting a bowl across a table, she pushed the blaze a bit farther his way. Connal gaped at the tongue of fire hovering over the rock for a long moment, then looked at her.

  "You have gifts I did not know existed."

  "And you hide yours."

  "Do not speak of that."

  She'd suspected he'd suppressed his ability to sense emotion with animals, and his answer only confirmed it. "Certainly. Shall I add it to the lists of subjects you refuse to discuss?"