Lady Mary gave the girl a quick shake before releasing her. “Go below, you wretched creature!” Turning, she put a hand on Meghan’s shoulder. “Pay no attention. The girl’s frightened witless by the battle; we all are. Go along to your room and forget the incident.”
Meghan hurried up the circular staircase that led to her room and shut and barred her door. She flung herself on her bed and gave in to the tears she had held back. “Revelin, Revelin, where are ye?”
After a few minutes, she drifted off to a troubled sleep.
*
The blast at the castle gate shattered the pitcher on the table by Meghan’s bedside. The stupor of sleep made her limbs feel twice as heavy as usual as she struggled to sit up. The room was in darkness, the only light a dull wavering glow that filtered through the arrow-slit windows of the tower.
The vision had come again as she slept, and for a moment she thought the sounds of battle so close must be the dregs of that unwanted dream. A woman’s scream on the stairwell that led to her room dashed that hope. Meghan sat up, her heart beginning to pump in long heavy strokes as her eyes focused on her door. The battle was going on inside the castle walls!
Booted feet clambered up the narrow winding stairs, and then with a loud whack! an ax bit into the planks of her door.
Meghan leaped to the floor as the ax slashed through a second time, making kindling of the once stout oak door. Freeing her skean, she dived under her bed as a huge arm reached through the mangled opening and lifted the crossbar.
Meghan felt her heart leap into her throat as she spied two men through the fringe of the bed hangings. They were not English soldiers, nor were they even clansmen to be recognized by the color of their mantles. They were dressed in bloody chain-mail shirts and wore skullcaps of steel. No insignia placed them. They were bonaghts, mercenaries.
The room was small and she knew they would find her. They did so almost at once. After stripping the bedding and overturning the armoire, they lifted the bed, frame and all, exposing her.
“A lass! A bonny fine lass!” one of them declared in Gaelic as he reached down and lifted her from the floor by her arm.
Meghan bit off a cry of pain as he jerked her up, and waited until he had set her on her feet before lunging at him. He had not expected her attack and her blade bit deeply into his throat. As he tumbled backward she wrenched it free and ran toward the open door. Roaring a curse, the second man caught her by the open flap of her gown as she gained the doorway.
Desperate, Meghan grabbed the splintered door and jerked. The cloth gave way, leaving her assailant with a scrap of cloth as she ran down the stairwell. The treacherously winding stairway was wide enough to allow the passage of only one grown man at the time, and the man behind her was hampered by his six-foot ax. Prayers formed on Meghan’s lips that there was no one ahead as she flew recklessly down the spiral.
When she rounded the final turn she could not stop and sprawled headlong into the corridor. She tasted blood as her chin hit the floor with a sickening jar, but she was up in an instant. Instinct drove her toward the main gallery, where she had left the others. The ringing sound of steel could be heard over the shouts and cries of men in the courtyard, but as she neared the gallery she could tell that there was no battle here; but the sight that greeted her slowed her step.
More bonaghts were looting the gallery, tearing tapestries from the walls and stripping the carpets from the floor. Gathered in a circle in the center of the room were Lady Mary and Lady Elenore and their children. One mercenary had Lady Elenore by the throat, the blade of his skean held just above the grip of his hand. With a whimper of fear, Meghan slipped into a dark shadow near the doorway and watched.
“Where be yer husband, bitch?” the man shouted.
Lady Elenore shook her head. “Not here! Dear God! Spare us! We’re women and children!”
“Aye, women! There should be something to be had in that, too.” The bonaght sheathed his skean, then suddenly reached for the neck of Lady Elenore’s gown and ripped it open to the waist. The sound of shredding cloth and Lady Elenore’s accompanying cry snared the attention of several other men.
“If ye will nae aid our search, ye may as well entertain us.” Still holding her by the throat, he kicked out his booted foot and yanked her legs out from under her. He fell with her, not bothering to break her fall. Lady Elenore’s ragged gasp of pain was smothered in his brutal kiss as the soldiers nearby came to urge him on with filthy oaths and suggestions.
Meghan leaned back into the shadow and closed her eyes as fear ran like ants over her skin. Lady Elenore was being raped before her own children’s eyes! Meghan knew she should do something. But what? And how could she know that anything she might do would stop them? One man she could kill, but a dozen? They would overpower her and then use her as they did Lady Elenore.
Never before had she felt so weak, so helpless, so vulnerable. She did not fear dying, but she did fear the brutality of the scene before her. Tears streamed down her face as Lady Elenore’s cries echoed in the rafters of the long hall. No! She could not allow this! She must try to stop it. Suddenly she knew what method to use.
She propelled herself from the corner before her momentary courage could desert her again. “Stop! Stop!” she cried at the top of her lungs and ran forward into the room.
The men looked up in surprise, then one of them smiled. “Another lass! And younger! She’s mine first!”
As he started toward her, Meghan drew her skean and fell to her knees in the center of the gallery. Without a pause she reached up with one hand, tore her hair free of its braid, and raised her hands heavenward as she cried, “Mallacht!”
When he was a few feet from her, Meghan lifted her gaze to the hulking soldier’s face, shutting out the whimperings of Lady Elenore. “Beware bonaght!” she challenged, and flung the wild tangle of hair back from her face as she turned her marked cheek toward him.
“Tis a beanfeasa!” he whispered as he fell back a step. The men who had been holding Lady Elenore’s arms and legs released her and rose to their feet. With her gown spattered with blood from the dead bonaght, her eyes wild, and the blood-red mark upon her livid cheek, the girl appeared to them as an apparition from Hell.
“Mallacht!” Meghan repeated and aimed the point of her skean at the rapist still astride his victim. “A curse on ye, bonaght!” Then in a loud steady voice she cried, “No comlund i mbethi memais foraib ocus bethi for seilib agus for sopaib hi each airiucht i mbed!”
The offender scrambled to his feet and reached for his skean.
Meghan leaped to her feet and swung her outstretched hand about to include the roomful of men. “Mallacht!” she repeated for the third time. “A curse on all of ye who violate this house.”
She locked gazes with the men one by one, and their fear seemed to feed her courage. She heard boot steps in the doorway behind her, but she could not release the hold she had on the company of soldiers in order to protect her back.
She stretched her arms heavenward a second tune. “‘Defeat in all battles until in every camp ye’re spat upon and reviled!’ That’s me curse on ye if ye touch another woman or child!”
The men’s voices rose in protest but one overrode the others.
“The madwoman’s cursed me. I’ve nothing to lose!” Enraged beyond reason, the rapist lunged at her, his blade raised.
Meghan held her ground. If she was to die, it would be with the knowledge that they would believe themselves cursed beyond redemption.
There came a shout from behind her, and then a pistol shot roared past her ear an instant before a ball slammed into her attacker’s forehead. He staggered back and crumpled to the floor.
“I’ve warned ye, there’ll be nae rape of the nobility!”
Meghan swung around at the sound of that voice. Dressed in a battle-stained tunic, his face shrouded in crusted blood from a head wound, she could not distinguish a single feature. Yet she ran to him, her arms outstretched. “Colin!�
� she cried, tears blurring her vision of him. “Colin MacDonald!”
Stunned, Colin stepped back from her. “Meghan O’Neill?” he whispered hoarsely, and the strength seemed to go out of him. His pistol arm fell limply to his side.
“Ye know her, Colin?” cried one the soldiers. “Care a care, she’s cursed us!”
Colin’s gray eyes stared down into Meghan’s face and she saw the old fear returning. Suddenly he fell to his knees crying, “Do not curse me, beanfeasa! I’m yers to command!”
Appalled at the look of sick fear on the huge man’s face, Meghan turned and ran to where Lady Mary knelt beside Lady Elenore. The woman’s lips were bleeding and five large bruises had begun to redden on her neck where the bonaght had choked her, but her eyes were open when Meghan knelt over her. “Are ye bad hurt, Lady?”
“No—” Lady Elenore shook her head slightly. “Edward…will be…so…very…angry. No pistol! I forgot…it.”
“We’ll take ye to safety,” Meghan promised, and with Lady Mary’s help she lifted the woman to her feet.
John Reade pushed through the doorway of the gallery, a pistol in one hand and his sword in the other. His battle-weary eyes took in with disgust the scene of raping and looting. Carew had charged the men to refrain from despoiling the castle, but these men were not soldiers. These men were vermin, scavengers. In all his years of soldiering he had never before seen the devastation and outright slaughter of which these men were capable. With the smell of blood in their nostrils they had not been content until the sanctity of Saint Canice had been broached and the church silver and gold plate stolen. Thank God, he had been able to keep a small group of English soldiers by his side.
“Cowards! Thieves! Irish curs!” he cried, ranging his pistol back and forth among the few remaining bonaghts until reluctantly they withdrew to the far end of the hall. “Wilson!” he called over his shoulder to one of his men. “Secure the gallery!”
When he spied the women withdrawing from the room, he called to them. “Are you mad?” he questioned as they turned to him. “You’re safe in this room now with my men to guard you. You cannot leave for any reason.”
Meghan glanced up and away. John Reade. She swayed slightly. It did not seem possible, and yet it was he.
Lady Mary pinned the soldier with a haughty stare. “Is that the best you English can offer women in distress?”
John smiled evilly. “Would you rather I not interfere, my lady? I am certain your gallant Irishmen would be more than happy to return to their tasks ere I came.”
Lady Mary’s chin lifted a fraction. “If you can compare your conduct with the manners of swine, I doubt it will make much difference.”
Angered by the noblewoman’s refusal to thank him, John glanced away, and into Meghan’s face. “You!” He grabbed her by the arm as she turned her back and forced her to face him.
“It is, ’tis Meghan O’Neill!” he exclaimed in delight. “Is Revelin Butler among the rebels?”
“There are no rebels here, sir, only Butlers defending their home!” Lady Mary answered him icily. “And if you do not allow me to find a place of rest for the earl of Ormond’s sister-in-law, I will see that you lose your head for having allowed the violation!”
John smiled as his gaze stayed on Meghan’s pale face. “Do as you see fit, my lady. I have business with this girl.” He gazed intently at Meghan. “We do have business, do we not?”
Meghan began to tremble as his grip tightened on her arm. Here was a man who would not fear her power. John was more animal than human, a wolf who stalked in the shadows. Perhaps the vision had played her false, for the predatory look now in his eyes was for her. “What do you want?” she asked.
John’s eyes gleamed. “English, and so quickly. If you learn all things so well, we shall enjoy ourselves thoroughly. Come with me, girl! We need privacy.”
“No! No!” Meghan twisted in his grasp but he did not release her.
“Are you mad? Release her!” Lady Mary demanded.
Instead, John dragged Meghan close and whispered in her ear, “If you truly care for the lives of these people, you will come quietly. If not, I will free the bonaghts!”
“You wouldn’t!” With revulsion Meghan saw the answer in his eyes. Looking into the black pit of his fathomless gaze, she knew that she was lost. “I’ll come,” she whispered so softly that only he heard.
Chapter Sixteen
Meghan bit the inside of her lip to keep back the cries for help that trembled on her tongue as John Reade dragged her out of the long gallery. She knew that if she balked, he would withdraw his promise to protect the Butler women and children from further harm.
When John paused in the corridor, she cast a calculated glance at the main staircase, wondering if she might be able to push him down the stone steps. Two bonaghts, dressed in animal skins and hauling a chest down the steps from the floor above, bumped a man standing on the landing. He looked up and cursed, and Meghan saw that it was Colin. This time she turned away from his startled glance. He had run away and left her in the gallery; he would not help her now.
“You, soldier, take those two men and set a guard at the gallery doors,” John ordered the Scotsman. “And keep your men away from the east tower. I’ve business there that will occupy me some little time.”
Meghan did not resist, but when John jerked her after him she could no longer keep back a whimper of fear. At the sound, he swung around and slapped her.
“Quiet, bitch! You gave your word; will you keep it?”
Meghan shrank back from him as far as the length of her arm’s reach and lifted her hand to her stinging cheek, but she did not try to free herself. Aware that the bonaghts who had moved out of John’s path were openly staring at her, she lifted her chin and looked at John.
“I will honor the bargain,” she said softly in Gaelic. “But whatever pleasure you imagine, you’ll be disappointed.” There it was, said between them, the unspoken knowledge that John was bent on rape.
John’s mouth curved. He did not understand her but he saw acceptance in her eyes. “Come, mistress, it grows late and we’ve the night before us.”
Meghan did not know if he chose her room by design or chance, but as he dragged her up the narrow winding stairs she wondered what his reaction would be to the overturned bed and dead man sprawled across the floor. Perhaps he would give up in disgust, she thought as a bubble of hysteria percolated to the top of her simmering emotions. Yet, she was not without a defense of her own. When her sleeve slipped back to her elbow, exposing the O’Neill skean, she reached out and jerked it back to her wrist.
John paused again at the top of the staircase, his jaw beginning to work agitatedly when he saw the ax-shredded door hanging on a single hinge. He debated whether he should find a more secluded room, for he wanted no intruders. If he retraced his steps he would risk being diverted by orders.
Undecided, he looked back at Meghan’s blanched face, and the hot dark currents of his lust rose to the surface. He felt by turns burned and chilled and, above all, stiff. His lust for her was a canker; he was eaten alive with need. He feared that in another moment he would be on his knees before her, begging her to pleasure him. A beautiful woman: she was his weakness. His hand trembled on her arm, which he held in a viselike grasp. He must have her! Now!
John glanced back at the room beyond the battered door and tugged Meghan after him. “God’s death!” he roared as he nearly sprawled over the body of the dead bonaght.
Meghan kept her eyes averted for fear that the sight would bleach the conviction from her voice as she said, “’Tis my room. I killed that man. I’ve cursed your soldiers and I curse you, John Reade!”
John looked at her in faint surprise. “Do I seem a man afraid of curses?”
The eyes staring down into Meghan’s were glazed with wildness of purpose that made her stomach flutter. Her head ached and her mouth felt like sand but she could not look away. His grip had all but cut off the circulation and her fingers w
ere numb, but she did not concentrate on the pain. She stared at him. “I saved your life on Lough Neagh.”
John’s clenched jaw eased into a smile. “Did you?”
“You were guilty of murdering the O’Neill clansman. I saw it in your eyes.”
“I remember that night well.” His smile deepened in recollection. Her body had been like a white flame in the darkness, her skin luminous and inviting. It had been Revelin who had knelt between her thighs and eased himself. This time, he would know that pleasure. The thought of it made him burn. He had hoped to arouse her as much as he was, but he knew now he would not be able to contain himself. After the first time, he would be more in control; then he would teach her games he doubted Revelin knew.
Still holding her by the wrist, he reached down to unhook the metal points of his codpiece. “I remember the night because you were young Butler’s slut. You bared yourself to him on the riverbank and then you spread yourself for him.” He licked his lips as his hand began to work on his own flesh. “Bare yourself for me, girl, and I’ll show you how it feels to be ridden by a real man.”
“You…you followed us?” Meghan whispered in horror.
“Aye, I did, and now I’ll possess what you gave to Butler.” He yanked her nearly off her feet as he roughly pulled her close. With his free hand he grabbed the neck of her gown and tore it open to the waist. His gaze greedily covered her naked breasts. “Ah, I remember them proud breasts, how they shone in the moonlight. Revelin suckled them well, I recall. Then that damned nosy Irishman came creeping through the underbrush and I had to kill him.”
His breath was hot and fetid on her face, but Meghan kept her eyes level with his, while revulsion and fear shrank her flesh against her bones. What she and Revelin had shared had been pure. Knowing now that this man had hidden in the bushes and watched made their actions seem an obscenity. The thought made her angry and in her anger she forgot a little of her fear.
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