She could not see the faces clearly but made out Varya easily enough, then spied a woman with the distinctive auburn hair that could only belong to her reviled stepcousin. ‘Twas true, then. ‘Twas she. Ailinn of the Érainn.
Rhiannon’s elation swelled, her joy unbridled. She raised her hands and boasted to the heavens. “I have won! The victory is mine! And so will be the vengeance.”
She threw her head back, venting a laugh that came from a place deep in her soul — a black hole that contained all the pain she had ever known — all the misery she believed Ailinn had caused her — a place that cried for retribution.
Again Rhiannon looked to the small figures disembarking below. They headed toward the steep path that led to the top of the cliff.
Rhiannon twirled in a small circle, jubilant as a child, then skipped fleetly down the steps. She would meet them, she decided swiftly. Yes, she would wait at the top of the cliff in cool and queenly splendor while Ailinn clawed her way up the miserable little trail. Her coddled stepcousin would arrive sweating and panting with her heart hammering in her chest. And when she reached the top she would find herself at Rhiannon’s feet — Rhiannon, back from the dead.
Rhiannon hurried back to her room, shouting Blinne’s name. Inside, she flung open her chests, pulled out a scarlet gown of silk and a brocaded mantle edged with martin. She adorned herself with a heavy golden torque, jeweled rings, and finely wrought bracelets. Finishing, she swathed her head and neck in a filmy veil, carefully arranging the folds to conceal her scars.
Rushing out again, she passed from the inner courtyard through a linteled gate. Cahercommaun possessed three defense walls in all, the innermost nearly a complete circle, the outer two semicircular in design, each ending at the edge of the cliff that plunged to the sea.
The hill-fort’s design delayed Rhiannon now, for she was forced to run along the inner ring to a second linteled gate that opened onto the outer ring. Reaching the third and outermost gate, she quickened through it and hastened along the rim of the cliff, stopping now and then to check on the party’s progress down the shore.
Her feet carried her on until she reached the top of the path and stood catching her breath. Rhiannon waited, her breaths evening out. She smoothed her gown and adjusted her veils, her heart pounding with high anticipation.
Soon heads and shoulders appeared. Again Rhiannon glimpsed the deep, rich red of her stepcousin’s hair. Her excitement multiplied.
At last the others neared the top. Wimund came first, followed by Ailinn. Unexpectedly, ‘twas not Grimbold who came next, but a tall, dark-haired man. Rhiannon could not yet see his face, but Varya followed with his sword gleaming at the man’s back.
Rhiannon could not concern herself with his presence at the moment. Ailinn was within her grasp. Rhiannon refused to allow anything to distract from or spoil this moment.
She waited triumphant at the crest of the cliff. Waited to see the shock in Ailinn’s golden-brown eyes when she beheld who had ordered her abduction — Rhiannon, who had been abandoned in the Steppe to die.
Laughter, dark and rich, bubbled up in Rhiannon’s chest, but she restrained herself from voicing it and quickly fingered the folds of her veil a final time.
Wimund gained the top first, heaving for breath. Catching sight of Rhiannon, he nearly fell backward in surprise. He secured his footing, then grinned and began babbling.
“Princess! I have brought her. Just as I promised. The baronne for the treasure. Grimbold is dead, so the treasure belongs solely to me now. Though I’ll be taking my pleasure on her before I leave, as you said I could.”
Rhiannon’s anger spiked when the scab of a man continued to block her view of her old adversary. Taking a swift step forward, Rhiannon shoved Wimund aside as though he were no more than a bothersome insect.
Rhiannon’s lips stretched into a broad smile as her step-cousin raised her face and her eyes widened with shock.
Rhiannon gloated, her green eyes boring into those of crystal blue, the face familiar yet possessing the youthful bloom of one who had yet to see her twentieth year. Rhiannon’s face fell.
“Wha-a-at?!” she shrieked. “What have you done?” She reeled on Wimund, choking with fury. “Who is this?”
Wimund shrank back. “W-why the baronne, L-Lady Ailinn.”
“Fool! This is not Ailinn of the Érainn.”
The young woman suddenly jutted up her chin. “Ní hea,” she proclaimed in Gaelic. I am not Lady Ailinn. I am her daughter, Ailénor of Héricourt.”
The girl met her gaze evenly, defiantly, so much like her despised mother. Rhiannon hissed, fire crackling through her veins.
“Her daughter?” Rhiannon’s nostrils flared. She rounded once more on Wimund. “Her daughter?” she repeated, her voice rising several notes higher. Rhiannon clouted Wimund alongside the head. “Imbecile! Half-wit! What do I want with the daughter?”
Wimund hunkered down, covering his head. “I . . . we . . . she looked like . . .” He wet his lips, trembling. “P-perhaps all is n-not lost, Princess. If you possess the daughter, surely the mother will do all in her power to save her child. Even exchange places.”
“Silence!” Rhiannon seethed. “I want none of your excuses.”
She slashed her eyes over the dark-haired man who stood silent behind the girl.
“Varya,” she snapped. “Take these two to the souterrain, then come to my chamber. You can apprise me then of what passed and explain why this man is here.”
She glanced at Wimund’s quivering form. “And you, you misbegotten maggot, I will deal with you directly. You best hope this situation is salvageable.”
With a curt nod, she signaled to Varya. “Take them below.”
Turning on her heel, she stalked from the cliff.
»«
Ailénor leaned her head back against the cool stone of the cave wall, her lashes pressed shut as she recalled the past hours. One image haunted more than any other — that of Rhiannon as she waited atop the cliff.
Even now, chills crawled through Ailénor to think of the witchlike creature — a shock of white streaking her dark hair, nails sharp as talons, her skin aged and leathery from years of harsh exposure, and the scars — dear God, the scars. The veil had scarce concealed those upon her cheek, but when Rhiannon’s anger overtook her, the cloth fell loose, revealing yet another, more hideous scar upon her neck.
But more than anything, Ailénor could not forget the woman’s eyes. Their green depths burned with fire. And hate.
So this was Rhiannon, her mother’s stepcousin. It both revulsed and incensed Ailénor to think this foul being wished to harm her mother. Her mother, who was filled with naught but goodness and beauty and grace. She was like the light of day, and Rhiannon the pitch of night. Her mother was like a luminous pearl, and Rhiannon, blackest obsidian.
“Ailénor,” Garreth spoke softly to her right, catching her attention. “We were right. Look.”
Ailénor glanced toward him, then saw a little bird near Garreth’s foot, strutting a circle and cocking its head with curiosity at his boot.
The scent of fresh air and the distinct sound of bird cries had given them to suspect the tunnel opened out onto the face of the cliff. Now they were sure.
On a whir of wings, their little visitor left as easily as it came, disappearing down the low-ceilinged passageway in the direction of the sea.
“If only we could be rid of these.” Garreth pulled his leg against the ankle iron and chain that anchored him to the wall.
Ailénor looked to her own chain and to the ropes that bound her wrists.
When they first put into shore, their captors had retied their hands in front of them so they might better climb the steep path up the side of the cliff. On being taken to the underground passage, their ankles were then shackled with cuffs and chains, the latter attached to rings embedded in the wall. Garreth and she were spaced far enough apart that neither could reach the other, nor anything else in the souterrain.
Wooden chests, baskets, ropes, and assorted supplies lined the walls. If they held implements that could free them of their bonds or facilitate their escape, there was no way to lay hold of them.
“Ailénor,” Garreth prodded her from her thoughts. “Do you know aught of Ireland? Did your mother ever speak of its western parts? ‘Twould be best to know which way to flee when the time comes, over land or by sea.”
Garreth’s confidence heartened Ailénor, and she appreciated that he allowed no room for “ifs.”
“Mayhap this is the Kingdom of Thurmond. Maman talked of its sheer cliffs and wild, desolate beauty. ‘Tis a barren, rocky region with few trees and little water. ‘Tis strewn with caves, and peat bogs come up right to it, some like quicksand. They can suck even a strong man straight under.”
Garreth grimaced. “The sea sounds more appealing. Do you think we could handle a two-master?” The corners of his mouth pulled upward, a light sparkling to life in his eyes. “Of course, we can always rig it as a one-master, if you like. You obviously know more of ships and sailing, and I do not mind at all placing myself under your very skillful hands.”
He grinned outright now, and Ailénor could not keep her own lips from stretching into a smile. He hadn’t lost his sense of humor. For that she was thankful. It soothed her nerves and cheered her spirits, giving a breath of hope that all would yet be right.
As she gazed on Garreth, her heart warm with love, the heavy tread of boots sounded on the passage stairs off to her left.
Turning, Ailénor’s smile froze upon her lips. The formidable barbarian, Varya, stood at the bottom of the steps. He was a fierce, savage-looking man — a rock-solid mass of muscle with merciless black eyes. His hand moved to his hip and he unsheathed his curved, gleaming sword.
Ailénor swallowed.
A shadow moved out from behind Varya and scurried ratlike down the last steps and straight toward Ailénor. Instinctively she pulled back, then saw ‘twas Wimund. His great eyes glowed with his excitement as he squatted beside her.
“The key, the key,” he demanded impatiently, twisting to look back at Varya. The heathen removed the key ring from his wide belt and tossed it to Wimund.
Wimund uttered a gleeful laugh as he took hold of Ailénor’s ankle and jabbed the key into the iron lock. Mumbling happily to himself in Gaelic, he removed the manacle, but then couldn’t resist running his hand upward over her calf and back down again.
“Nice. Nice.” He bobbed his head, then began to pluck her gown from her other ankle.
Repelled, Ailénor drew in her legs, but as she did, a shadow fell across them. They looked up into Varya’s glowering face. Wimund scuttled back under the heathen’s cold glare.
Reaching down, Varya took hold of Ailénor by the upper arm and hauled her to her feet. He continued to hold her firmly at his side as he gestured with his sword point for Wimund to unlock Garreth.
Wimund scrambled over to Garreth and worked the lock. As he took off the restraint, Garreth thrust to his feet, knocking Wimund off balance.
Garreth stood tall and stony-faced, riveting Varya with his eyes alone — a hard, unyielding look that warned no harm should befall Ailénor.
Ailénor shook to her toes, fearful for Garreth as he dared to maintain his stance, rigid with challenge, yet with his wrists still bound.
Scuffling to his feet, Wimund slipped out a knife and pointed it at Garreth’s ribs. But Garreth rounded on the rodent, causing Wimund to fall back a pace. Nervously Wimund flashed the knife before him.
“Garreth! Non, do not tempt them,” Ailénor pleaded.
Garreth looked at her, and their eyes locked and held. As he eased his posture, Wimund gave forth a cackling laugh, pleased with the little victory.
But in the next moment Varya cut through Wimund’s gaiety, rumbling a command in his coarse, growling voice.
Wimund shoved Garreth toward the steps, carping in Gaelic. Ailénor knew Garreth could not understand his words. She, however, caught each one.
“Get on. Get on,” Wimund jabbered. “Princess Rhiannon waits. Not wise to make her wait. Not wise at all.”
»«
As they emerged from the souterrain, Ailénor saw that the color had left the sky, leaving everything dusted in shades of gray.
‘Twas much later than she had imagined. Days were exceptionally long in the summer months in Ireland and the nights comparably short. Even now, though it was past Lammas Day and pressing late into August, the days remained lengthy.
From the look of the sky, Ailénor guessed it to be well past compline and nearer to the midnight hour. That Rhiannon summoned them at so late an hour surprised her not at all. To such a woman, day and night would hold no meaning.
Following Wimund, they approached the largest of the buildings in the courtyard. He hastened to shoulder open the iron-studded door, then setting his knife to Garreth’s back once more, he ordered them inside.
Sputtering torches greeted them, casting poor light and shifting shadows upon the stone walls and emitting an acrid odor. Ailénor followed Garreth and Wimund deeper into the hall with Varya immediately behind her. She coughed as the smoke touched her lungs and brought tears to her eyes. It layered the room in a thin haze, drifting slowly upward to an opening in the ceiling.
Ailénor scanned the sparse trappings displayed on one wall and noted the ornamented chest that stood against it. Joining Garreth where he stood at the room’s center with Wimund, she glanced up to him but found his gaze fixed to the far end of the chamber. Following his line of sight, she discovered Rhiannon.
Rhiannon sat upon a thronelike chair, richly carved and cushioned. Her bright scarlet dress appeared bloodred in the torchlight and her dark robes an inky black. She reminded Ailénor of a queenly spider waiting in her cave. Waiting to trap and consume her prey.
Ailénor saw how Rhiannon’s gaze strayed over Garreth, her interest obvious. But at Ailénor’s movement, Rhiannon’s eyes shifted.
A shadow passed through Rhiannon’s expression, and her eyes glittered, filling with such venom and a look so chilling, Ailénor thought her blood would never flow warm again.
Ailénor forced herself to stand firm and not yield to the powerful instinct to draw back. Clearly Rhiannon saw in herself her mother Ailinn. Maman and she shared a strong resemblance, one that the poor light would serve only to enhance. One that could not help but stir Rhiannon’s darkest feelings toward her mother. Indeed, Rhiannon’s hatred was palpable.
Ailénor’s throat suddenly felt dry as sand. She pulled her gaze from Rhiannon and looked to Garreth to see if he was as affected by the woman’s malevolence as she.
“Suidh.” Rhiannon’s voice cut like a knife through the heavy silence, drawing Ailénor’s gaze back. Raising a long, jeweled forefinger, Rhiannon pointed to a place behind them.
“She says to sit,” Ailénor interpreted for Garreth in a hushed tone.
Turning, they found a rough bench had been brought forward. Without a word, they crossed to it and seated themselves there. Varya took up his stance behind them, his sword remaining drawn.
Wimund, meanwhile, hovered near Rhiannon, as though hoping to gain her attention. But at her black look, he scrabbled back and took a place on a low stool in the corner.
Several painfully thin servants materialized from a side door and moved wraithlike about the hall. Quickly they assembled a trestle before Garreth and Ailénor, then spread it with a crisp white linen that was wholly incongruous with the setting. Unlocking the ornamented chest, they drew forth fine goblets and silver plate chased with gold, again not in keeping with the stark surroundings but obviously part of Rhiannon’s private hoard.
Garreth leaned ever so slightly toward Ailénor. “I wonder how she acquired such wealth. Do you suppose she stole it?”
“Naught would surprise me of a woman who has survived the Steppe and tamed a barbarian,” Ailénor commented dryly.
Varya rumbled something from behind, presumably ordering them to be sil
ent.
The servants next appeared with pitchers of wine and platters of food, attending first to their princess, then to the captive guests.
Rhiannon sipped from a magnificent jeweled goblet and ate from a plate of silver and gold held by a servant. Ailénor noted that she partook of the same simple fare served herself and Garreth — fish, bread, cheese, and wine.
Yet for all the impressive finery, the wine was cloudy with sediment, and a servant had to cut away the mold on the cheese at a side table before it could be presented. The bread, in turn, proved coarse and stale. Only the fish was fresh and of merit, having been smoked over a fire.
Rhiannon finished her portion and rinsed it down with the murky wine. She then lifted her jeweled goblet as if to salute Garreth and Ailénor.
“Let it not be said my hall lacks hospitality. Even my enemies are fed.”
From the corner of her eye, Ailénor saw Garreth look to her for the meaning of Rhiannon’s words, but she did not wish to miss the opportunity of the moment.
“If we are your enemies, Rhiannon, you have made us so. We did not ask to be brought here.”
Rhiannon lowered the goblet, her eyes firing at Ailénor’s boldness. Just as quickly Rhiannon shuttered the look, a thin smile unfurling across her lips. She rose slowly in place. Holding out her goblet, she waited while a servant refilled it, then advanced toward the couple, her strides long and rhythmic.
“True. You did not ask to come here.” Rhiannon’s voice flowed smooth as silk. “And yet, here you are.”
Coming to stand beside Garreth, she trailed a hand over his broad shoulders, then brushed her fingers through his dark hair.
“Now, I am faced with the question of what exactly to do with you.”
With one of her talonlike nails, she traced a line from behind Garreth’s ear, across his throat to beneath his chin.
Ailénor shivered inwardly for its path was identical to that of the scar on Rhiannon’s throat.
“I have no quarrel with your companion,” Rhiannon purred. “But his presence does complicate things.” Her gaze slid to Ailénor. “As for you, my dear, I find myself in agreement with Wimund. You have a very definite use to me.”
The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series) Page 29
