Dara prayed the Ard-ri’s army would remain in Connaught. While her family had troubles in Leinster, they’d solve them without the high king’s interference. She saw no reason to invite Strongheart onto their land. That her father had even considered such a decision distressed her deeply.
More and more she had to cover up her father’s mistakes. Although Conor O’Dwyre had the strength of three men, his forgetful spells came more frequently now. But since Leinster’s men still followed Conor into battle without hesitation, the O’Dwyres had no need of a Norman gaining the men’s allegiance, usurping her father’s authority.
Strongheart set down his silver goblet of wine on the great yew table, then strode toward her father. Her heartbeat quickened in alarm, and Dara’s hand closed on the handle of the dirk at her waist. But the Norman’s hands stayed clear of his magnificent diamond-and-amber encrusted sword.
His tone resonated lethal confidence. “Your men lack training. Purchasing mail for the men-at-arms and armor for the horses is vital. And the triple rings of stone on the southern wall need major reinforcement.”
Dara’s stomach lurched in growing resentment and horror. His sharp eyes had assessed their every weakness.
Stiffening her spine, she wrapped pride around her like a cowl. “Ferns is the finest castle in all Eire.”
Strongheart raised a dark brow. The set of his mouth bordered on mockery, and his tone remained dangerously even. “Pillars of bronze, roofs of tile, and gongs of silver will not halt an army. And neither will your spiked tongue.”
“Och. The great Norman knight has come to safeguard Leinster. If I believed that, I’d have the sense of a flea.”
“Stop snarling. I cannot afford a fight between you.” Her father leaned back in his chair, rubbed his beard, and stared hard at Strongheart. By his long silence, Dara knew he still considered the man’s suggestions.
“I want to see what he can do. You may stay—”
“No!” Acid burned Dara’s stomach as she rushed to her father’s side, blinking back tears of defeat. Conor could not force the Norman on their people. Castle Ferns would not harbor a traitor.
“You will not gainsay me, Daughter.”
Fully aware that tears wouldn’t change her father’s mind, she forced herself to speak with strength. “I say what I please. We cannot afford another mistake.”
“Strongheart can stay the night. I will decide by—”
“Raiders,” bellowed a guard from the lower bailey, interrupting their argument.
At the first sign of trouble, the Norman’s hand moved so quickly to his sword, his hand was a blur. He spun, sword half-drawn from his scabbard before she could shout, “Where?”
“Sletty,” came the reply from below.
Conor pounded the arm of his chair with his fist. “The thieves grow bolder; they steal our cattle during the day.”
With a sudden rush of panic, Dara’s blood drained from her face. Her maid Sorcha had gone that morn to visit her brother in Sletty, less than a half-day’s ride away. At this hour, perhaps Sorcha was already on her way back, but Dara could not shake off the dark premonition smothering her like a cloak. Sorcha was like a mother to her; she couldn’t bear to see her harmed.
At the news, her father leapt from his chair with a hoarse battle cry on his lips and sprinted down the stairs, with Strongheart close behind. Perhaps this time they’d catch the thieves and end these constant border raids.
In the bailey, women hugged their men goodbye and offered bread and cheese for the journey, and children raced about the men. Below, horses whinnied at the call-to-arms. Men cursed. Dogs barked at honking geese.
Dara ran lightly down the steps, seized her bow, and slung it over her shoulder. She grabbed her traveling pouch packed with clean cloths for bandages and needle and thread for stitching. After seizing a few bundles of herbs and filling a waterskin, she stuffed the supplies into her pouch.
She slipped a dirk into her boot, then hurried outside to see the men already mounted and galloping across the scrub land. But she couldn’t stay behind without going mad with worry. Not with Sorcha’s life at risk. Dara sprinted to the stables and bridled her red stallion Fionn. Hiking up her tunic, she vaulted onto his back.
“Go, Fionn.” She goaded him with her heels, and he bolted after the warriors.
Her great steed’s powerful hooves devoured the distance between Dara and the men, sending the occasional hare zigzagging for cover. Overhead, a kestrel hovered, steadily holding its position in the air with no more than a tremor of its wings. If only finding Sorcha would prove so effortless.
Although her father would not be pleased by Dara’s actions, he would not stop her. Often her tracking skills brought them victory, especially when the raiders hid cattle in a marsh. Besides, he knew how much Sorcha meant to her.
The sky grayed to a weighty, depressing gloom, but no impending storm would stop Dara. Drawing in great draughts of air, she followed the dust blowing in the eternal west wind. Beneath Fionn’s hooves, the verdant green pastures whirled away, becoming hilly crag. She topped a heady rise, and the wind keened, blowing her hair back from her face and giving Dara her first clear view of Sletty in the distance.
From the peak, the village looked deserted. Not a whiff of smoke emerged from the wattled huts. Only chickens clucked in the empty mud lane through the village’s center.
After sending for her father’s help, the villagers must have hidden the swine, sheep, and milk cows in the nooks of these hills. At least the raiders had not burned the thatch roofs. No bodies lay in the street. Perhaps Sorcha was safe.
She rode down to join her father and his men, who had stopped to confer with the smithy. When she advanced, the warriors drew their mounts aside, leaving her a clear path to her father, then closed ranks protectively behind her.
BY THE ROOD! What is Princess Dara doing on a raid? So great was Strongheart’s incredulity, he almost shouted the words aloud. He glanced from her straight back, high chin, and squared shoulders to the faces of the Irish men. Not one warrior looked surprised.
From their casual acceptance of her presence, he gathered Irish princesses rode on daily raids, or at least Dara O’Dwyre did. Apparently riding into danger was an everyday occurrence for the red-haired woman who rode as if she were part of her stallion, indifferent to her tunic hiked well above her knees, revealing delicate ankles.
If the king risked his daughter’s life by allowing such pagan behavior, it was no concern of Strongheart’s. Yet pretending nonchalance was proving more difficult than he’d imagined. Neither the long hair that reached her thighs nor her hose hid the shapely muscles with which she straddled the bare back of her huge roan stallion.
When he caught her fierce glance darkened with the merest hint of worry, her eyes sparkled like the sun glinting through Leinster’s emerald forests. Her straight, short nose seemed to turn up at him, and her full lips clamped together in disapproval. The air crackled with tension, sizzling his flesh from his scalp to his toes. For one brief moment, he forgot to suck in air. Then she moved on, breaking the eerie spell she’d cast over him.
Strongheart took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He would have coveted the King of Leinster’s daughter even if she’d been as gnarled as a crone. To find such an enchantress only increased his determination to have her and her rich lands. Her ruby lips were made for kissing, her provocative eyes flashed with clear emerald sparkles, and her fair skin had a golden glow that made him yearn to possess her. If he ever owned such a treasure, he vowed to guard her well. Had these Irishmen no pride to allow a woman to ride with men into battle?
When Conor spied his daughter, he interrupted his conversation and held out his hand to her. “’Tis dangerous to ride alone. Why did you tarry so long?”
She squeezed his hand and nodded toward the pouch stuffed with remedies tied
to her waist. “I came prepared.”
“For battle?” Strongheart nudged his horse forward.
With a defiant toss of her glorious hair, she squared her shoulders. “I am always ready to defend Leinster’s assets.”
“And most beautiful are those assets.” He ran his gaze from the tips of her smoky lashes to her booted toes, taking in the proud tilt of her chin, the enticing curves of her breasts, the graceful way she sat her horse.
Her eyes glared at him icily. “I’ll slice the throat of any man who tries to take what is mine.” Turning her horse, she gave him her stiff back.
Bloodthirsty wench. Strange how she objected to an honest compliment. Odd how she was savvy one minute, guarded and cool the next.
Conor finished his questioning of the smithy and urged his mount southwest. The band of riders rode hard, past ruins engulfed in ivy, through a wood of oaks undergrown with holly, and onto the upland moors.
As they rounded a rocky crag, the path deteriorated into battle-site unevenness, and they startled a flock of white-fronted geese and feral goats. Despite the majestic peregrines, ravens, and sparrowheads flying above the rough terrain, Strongheart’s gaze repeatedly returned to Dara. Keeping his destrier abreast with her stallion, he was nearly mesmerized by the rhythmic bounce of her auburn tresses.
With her creamy complexion flushed from the wind and her long hair streaming like a banner behind her, she fired his imagination. Her intelligent sea-green eyes, the boldness of her presence, sent his thoughts whirling. What would it be like to taste her provocative lips? To hold her naked in his arms? To watch her face when she experienced her woman’s pleasure for the very first time?
As if sensing his thoughts, she looked over her shoulder. He’d half-expected her to frown or sneer, but she grinned in challenge and dug her heels into her stallion’s sides, darting ahead.
Accepting her silent dare, Strongheart dug in his heels, and his horse broke free of the pack. To catch her, he used all his horsemanship to prod his steed faster. Unburdened by saddle or armor, she rode as well as any knight, perhaps better since her diminutive size seemed no match for the powerful stallion. Catching her did not prove easy.
Finally he came abreast. She rode high on the stallion’s withers, her face aglow with exhilaration, her eyes sparkling. No matter how much she was enjoying this ride, she shouldn’t have left herself unprotected.
“Hold up. Conor’s men are far behind,” he shouted, his voice muffled by a strong western gust.
She began to rein the stallion in. And then above the wind, a woman’s scream pierced the air, followed by several sharp curses.
Dara paled. He expected her to draw her horse to a screeching halt. Instead, she leaned forward, crooned in her stallion’s ears, and dug her heels into his flanks. The horse bolted ahead, and he realized he’d caught her only because she’d let him.
In frustration at being left to eat her dust, and worried over her safety, he yelled over the pounding hooves, “Stop! Don’t go alone!”
“’Tis Sorcha!” Dara shouted back, riding on without pause.
Bloody fool woman. Would she risk her life for a maid? As she put herself in danger, Strongheart’s gut clenched.
Another scream resounded from the copse of elms directly ahead of them. Through the trees, Strongheart spied a clearing where several men squatted around a campfire. At the northern end of the cleaning, a larger group herded milling cattle.
Dara veered toward the woman struggling on the ground at the far side of camp. Did the princess not realize the danger? While he would take on any man with his sword, he estimated ten times that number in camp.
Heedless of her own safety, Princess Dara charged straight into the group of men, scattering bellowing cattle in every direction. With her horse at a full gallop, she flung herself from the stallion’s back into a throng of startled men.
Strongheart’s heart slammed into his chest. Rarely had he seen such courage in knights wearing full battle armor. The fool girl could die before he reached her. He raked his mount’s sides with his spurs. Without taking his gaze off the spot where she’d jumped off her horse, he withdrew his sword and hefted his shield, guiding his animal solely with his knees.
He dared not risk a moment to look back to see how far behind Conor’s men lagged. As he neared the throng, the raiders pulled back from the attacking Irish princess, leaving him a clear view.
Sorcha lay with her legs splayed wide, her arms held tight by two men. A huge man, naked from the waist down, kneeled between her thighs.
After leaping from her horse, Dara had landed atop the shoulders of the rapist. Suddenly the man toppled, his neck spurting blood as Dara yanked her knife from his neck. He was no longer a threat to Dara. But another raider advanced upon her from behind.
He urged his mount forward, but his steed would never reach her in time. “Watch your back!”
Men closed in around him. He lost sight of her in the fray. His sword sliced through the men’s leather armor like a knife through lard. Still, by sheer overwhelming numbers, they forced him from his saddle and kept him pinned.
He sliced and parried, ducking past one man only to have another in his way. The coppery scent of blood filled the air as he fought in desperation. But no matter how slick the grass ran with blood, he couldn’t reach Dara.
Horses milled, circled, then bolted, all except his battle-trained mount, which held its ground. The panicked horses stampeded the cattle, and in their fright, their hooves knocked embers from the fire’s protective stone circle. Flames whipped across the grass. Smoke blocked his vision. The unmistakable stench of burnt flesh permeated the air, filling his nostrils.
And the maid never ceased her screaming.
As Strongheart blocked a knife with his shield, he thrust his sword into another raider’s heart. Between parries, he searched for Dara; with each downed opponent, he edged closer to where he’d spied her last. If she lived through this hour, her father should beat her for risking her life so wantonly.
Where in bloody hell was she?
Thick, dark smoke prevented him from finding her. Sparks caught one man’s clothes on fire, and he ran wildly through the melee, his frantic howls ignored by his fellow raiders. Strongheart stumbled over a corpse. A sword came toward his face. With a war cry, he raised his shield, blocking the blow. A pike stabbed under his raised shield, and he countered with the thrust of his sword. Before the man he’d smitten fell to his back and died, another took his place. Then, at his side, a third appeared.
Surrounded, Strongheart struggled to regain his footing, turning in a slow circle to protect his back. Four men attacked at once, two from the front, two from behind. From a crouch, Strongheart lunged forward, moving his back farther from the enemy, and simultaneously running down a forward opponent. Before he freed his broadsword, the other two attacked from the rear.
He spun, abandoning his sword and pitching his shield at one adversary to delay him, then rending the second with his axe, splattering brains and flesh in a death blow. Shifting to the side, Strongheart readied for another charge, but the third man fled, and the fourth’s deadly strike never came. Instead, the Irish raider collapsed to his knees with a startled look in his eyes, a knife’s hilt protruding from his nape.
Strongheart squinted through the smoke, searching for the fighter who had come to his aid. He spied Dara supporting the half-naked maid with one arm. The Princess must have thrown her dirk with the other!
Finally, her father’s men charged, the king roaring his fierce battle cry, his men taunting their enemy with death. Conor’s men-at-arms surrounded the wood, trapping the men fleeing with the cattle. Their foes stood no chance of victory since they were afoot. Fire and smoke flushed the raiders straight into Conor’s converging men.
Strongheart retrieved his fallen sword, but before he reached Dara’s si
de, a raider grabbed her from behind, tearing her from the maid. Sorcha cried out, stepped toward Dara, and then collapsed to the ground.
With his arm locked around Dara’s throat, the raider forced her toward a rearing horse tied to a fir. She struggled, stomping the man’s instep, jamming her elbow into his gut. Although her struggles delayed her captor a moment, the leather armor protected the man from her blow.
The man pressed a knife to Dara’s skin. Strongheart’s heart shot straight to his throat. He dared not close on him, for he could lose her before her next breath.
Her attacker backed away. “Drop your sword, Norman.”
Strongheart threw down his weapon. Slowly, he shrugged his shoulder and eased his bow into his hand.
Ever the fighter, Dara raised her knee and slid her hand to her boot.
Her captor jerked her upright, but her struggle to reach the weapon she’d hidden there was just the distraction Strongheart required. In an instant, he drew the bow.
“No.” Dara’s eyes widened. For the first time since her capture, fear flickered across her horrified face.
A woman had no place in battle. Especially this woman.
Strongheart loosed his arrow.
Chapter Two
WITH THE KNIFE at her neck, Dara faced death from the raider behind her, as well as from the Norman before her. Strongheart’s arrow flew straight toward her. Terror squeezed her throat.
The arrow struck, its immense force knocking Dara to her knees and freeing her from the man clutching her throat. Behind her, the raider shrieked his death knell.
Turning, she gasped in pain as her hair caught on the shaft, and she yanked the trapped locks loose. The Norman’s great arrow had narrowly missed her, piercing the raider’s right eye, killing him instantly.
Ignoring her nausea at the gruesome sight, she rolled free, scrambling for the dirk hidden in her boot, at the same time frantically searching for Sorcha. She spied her, but before she could reach her, another Norman in battle garb galloped into the smoky clearing and abducted the maid.
Conquer the Mist Page 2
