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  “Miriam Minger is a master storyteller who illustrates the full gamut of emotions felt by her characters. Emotions so strong that you are pulled into the pages and into their lives.” - Inside Romance

  WILD ROSES

  MIRIAM MINGER

  Copyright (c) 1996 by Miriam Minger. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Originally published by Avon Books, October 1996

  Cover Copyright (c) 2010 by Hot Damn Designs

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9828835-5-6

  Other Electronic Books by Miriam Minger

  Medieval Romances:

  Twin Passions

  Captive Rose

  The Pagan’s Prize

  Wild Angel

  Regency Era Romances:

  Secrets of Midnight

  My Runaway Heart

  Historical Romances:

  Stolen Splendor

  Defiant Impostor

  Highland Romances:

  A Hint of Rapture

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Prologue

  Ireland, 1212

  Near the Hill of Tara, Meath

  The moment he ducked his head inside the fire-blackened hut, a scream rent the air.

  Terrified. Shrill. Fading into frantic whimpers as the girl, her eyes filled with stark fear, clung to her weeping mother.

  Cursing again that he’d come too late, Duncan FitzWilliam could see the girl was dying. Thirteen years old, perhaps, no more, already her tear-stained cheeks bore an ominous pallor, as glaring to the eye as the brilliant red blood soaking the lower half of her gown. Forcing back the fury that threatened to engulf him, he moved slowly to the girl’s pallet but stopped when she made to shriek anew.

  “Woman, tell her I mean no harm,”he said to the mother who stared up at him with fear in her own eyes though she hugged her child fiercely. “My men and I—we’ve come to help.”

  “Help, lord?”Her voice hoarse, breaking, the Irishwoman looked from him to her ravaged daughter’s face, her work-worn fingers caressing an ashen cheek with heartrending tenderness. “You can’t help my Uta … not you, not the priest … not the angels above—ah, God!”

  As the woman’s sobs filled the hut, her dying daughter’s whimpers become as weak as her labored breathing, Duncan felt his rage grow hot and deep once more that an innocent should so suffer.

  Yet thus it had always been. The innocent suffered and the ruthless trod them like dust under their heels. But not this time. Not on his land. Not while he held breath.

  “Come.”He knelt and gathered the girl in his arms before the Irishwoman could protest, and so gently that she stared at him in teary-eyed astonishment. She could but hasten after him as he rose and carried his broken burden outside into a spring morning so gloriously sunny that it seemed to mock her sorrow.

  Mock, too, the ring of smoldering huts, sunlight dancing upon scorched earth and slaughtered sheep and chickens. Fortunately for the Irish tenants, most had escaped into freshly sown fields of wheat and rye when the three rogue Norman knights had come upon the tiny settlement. Fled for their lives, a few panicked souls reserving enough presence of mind to alert him at Longford Castle. But it hadn’t been swiftly enough for young Uta, whose slender body had borne the worst of the knights’ brutal attack while her mother had been made to watch helplessly.

  “Clement!”

  “Yes, Baron, I come! I come!” A stout man with a wide, kindly face came running, his monk’s robe held above his knees. “I’ve done what I can for the few wounded—”

  “Good. Tend to the girl and give comfort to her mother. Take them away from here, to the stream. The girl should have some peace—”

  “Bastards …”

  Duncan glanced at the Irishwoman, her face filled with such hatred that he knew she had spied the three prisoners slumped to their knees near the horses.

  “Unholy bastards! God’s curse upon you! God’s curse for what you’ve done to my Uta!”

  She flew at the closest prisoner so suddenly that Duncan couldn’t have stopped her, but he hadn’t thought to try. Nor did he signal for any of his men to wrest her away from the bound Norman knight who bellowed in pain as she raked her nails down his face.

  As the woman’s enraged shrieks filled the air and the two other prisoners clamored for mercy, horses stamping their hooves and whinnying in fright at the din, Duncan cradled the girl who moaned piteously in his arms. It was more for her sake than the prisoners’ that Duncan finally nodded for one of his own knights, Gerard de Barry, to stop the frenzied attack.

  A moment longer and he had no doubt the woman would have scratched out the Norman’s eyes which, in truth, made no difference to him. His prisoners would have no use for sight where they were bound.

  “Go, Clement, take the girl,” he quietly bade the friar. With a cry the mother shrugged free of Gerard’s hold and ran to clutch her daughter’s limp hand as Clement set out for the stream, though just before they disappeared into the trees, the Irishwoman glanced over her shoulder and met Duncan’s eyes.

  He saw fear no more, only a burning look of comprehension as if she sensed what lay ahead. And a flicker of gratitude. But Duncan turned away, his purpose not wholly to avenge her dying daughter. His grip tightening upon the hilt of his sword, he gave the barest nod to his men. At once the prisoners were hauled to their feet, all three swaying more from drunkenness than any rude handling.

  Fools. Sotted with ale, they had raped and plundered, and so they had been captured, sleeping off their cruel deeds along the same stream where Clement had taken the girl. For such witless folly alone, they deserved no pity.

  “Hang them.”

  Duncan’s growled command might have been a dousing of ice-cold water for how sober the prisoners suddenly appeared, their expressions incredulous as thick twists of rope were yanked down over their heads.

  “M-my lord, s-surely you misspoke,” cried out one stricken knight, only to wheeze and cough at the noose pulled taut around his neck. In desperation another man began to fight his captors, while the third, looking the worse for the Irishwoman’s attack upon his face, nonetheless drew himself up in belligerent fury.

  “You cannot hang us without a trial, FitzWilliam! We’ve rights, damn you, not like these Irish dogs you treat as if they were your own kind!”

  “Rights?” Duncan’s laugh was harsh. “You lost all rights, man, when you chose to take up arms two years ago against King John.�
�� Unmoved that one of the doomed knights began to retch over himself, Duncan watched grimly as the ropes were tossed over a massive oak limb. “Pity that you didn’t flee to France then with the earls de Lacy and their traitorous vassals instead of remaining to wreak havoc upon my land—”

  “Your land, you half-Scots bastard?” His eyes bulging in rage, the man’s voice rose to a rasping scream. “Walter de Lacy’s land, no matter that accursed king across the water parceled it out to the likes of you. And there’s scores more like us in Ireland who’ll not let you forget it!”

  “Then they’ll join you in hell. No one destroys what is mine, or does harm to those under my protection and lives to tell of it. No one.”

  Duncan wasn’t surprised by the vehement oaths hurled at him, nor at how quickly they ceased in stricken disbelief when he glanced at Gerard de Barry, the tall, russet-haired knight shouting an order to the men holding a trio of impatient horses. Sharp slaps on the rump were heard, then the ropes sprang taut, Duncan not taking his eyes from the three Normans as they writhed and jerked high in the air, legs kicking, tongues swelling, and faces turning blue.

  A few moments, no more, and life was gone, a question in Gerard’s eyes as he approached Duncan.

  “No, let them rot there,” he said before a word was spoken. “As a warning to both Irish and Norman. I guard well what is mine.”

  Duncan turned and strode for his horse so suddenly that the Irish tenants who had circled close to watch the hanging fell back and crossed themselves as he passed by, which made him smile grimly. No matter he had come to their aid, any Norman to these stubborn, unruly people remained one of Satan’s own sons, and it didn’t help that he bore the dark looks of his Scots mother. But his smile faded when a wild keening carried from the direction of the stream, which meant only one thing.

  The girl was dead. His throat grown tight, he muttered a terse prayer and mounted.

  Chapter 1

  Near the Wicklow Mountains

  “Begorra, Maire O’Byrne, have you ever seen a more glorious morning?”

  Doing her best to smile, Maire glanced at her older brother Niall, his broad grin tugging painfully at her heart.

  “Has the air ever smelled sweeter? Fine spring sunshine, a sound breeze coming down from the mountains. It’s giving me an appetite, that’s what it’s doing. Aye, big enough to eat one of Ronan’s prize cattle!”

  As laughter rumbled from the eight O’Byrne clansmen bringing up the rear, their horses trotting two by two behind her and Niall’s mounts, Maire hoped Niall wouldn’t sense her growing unease. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, she couldn’t tell him now. If she did, he might ride back to Ferns, and what good could come of that?

  Her hand trembling slightly at the thought, she swept a midnight strand from her face and fixed her eyes upon Niall.

  Nearly twenty-seven, he had never looked more handsome or more full of life, his blue-gray eyes dancing as he rode beside her, the sunlight catching glints of red in his dark brown hair. Maire knew he was thinking of Caitlin MacMurrough.

  Almost a dozen times now over the past two years they had visited the beautiful daughter of Donal MacMurrough, the most powerful chieftain of the MacMurrough clan, at her father’s stronghold in Ferns. An amazing thing, too, Maire thought with fresh heartache as Niall fell back to laugh and talk with their burly clansman Fiach O’Byrne and the others, leaving her to lead the way across a vast meadow sprinkled with wildflowers. The MacMurroughs had long been enemies of the O’Byrnes, until the day the two clans had joined forces to rescue Triona, her eldest brother Ronan’s spirited wife, from Dublin Castle.

  Rescue? Despite her low spirits, Maire couldn’t suppress a smile. Triona? Whenever she thought of the incredible story since told countless times in the O’Byrne feasting-hall, of a ruthless Norman baron and even his own king bested by a copper-haired slip of a woman, Maire still felt a sense of awe at her sister-in-law’s brazen courage.

  It amazed her even more that Triona forever insisted she, Maire O’Byrne, possessed bravery that surpassed hers … especially now, when she was feeling anything but courageous. In truth, she felt a coward. How could she not, when she bore news that would break Niall’s heart?

  A burst of infectious laughter behind her made Maire grip the reins so tightly, her fingers hurt, and she blinked against sudden tears.

  These past two years had forged a bond between herself and Caitlin MacMurrough as close as sisters; it had been Triona who had insisted Maire accompany Niall on his courting visits to Ferns not only to help build her strength, but because she had believed Maire and Caitlin would become fast friends. And so they had, though Maire almost wished now that she had never made this last journey.

  Caitlin’s tearful revelation to her only hours ago had cut her to the quick, but how could she not want her friend to be happy? Yet Niall, poor Niall. He had waited so patiently, at Donal MacMurrough’s firm behest, for Caitlin to reach eighteen years before any talk of a wedding take place, and now that date had come.

  But so too, had come a change of heart for Caitlin as sudden as a summer squall, or perhaps Maire had sensed the truth several months ago but had refused to believe it. Refused to believe the radiant light in Caitlin’s eyes during their last visit when she had gazed not upon Niall O’Byrne, but a strapping young Irishman of a neighboring clan, a godson of Donal MacMurrough. It had been barely sunrise when Caitlin had come to Maire’s bedchamber, her lovely features as pale as her linen sleeping gown.

  “Oh, Maire, what am I to do? I love Brian! I’ve promised to wed him, too, but we haven’t spoken to my father yet because of Niall. He’s been so good to me, so kind. I thought I loved him all this time, truly I did, but Brian … Jesu forgive me, I don’t know how to tell him!”

  Caitlin had sunk upon the edge of the bed in despair, her green eyes, so like Triona’s, stricken with tears, her silken blond hair falling across her face as she bent her head and wept. Maire had wept, too, for her tenderhearted friend, for Niall, for something that clearly could never be … then for the burden that was placed upon her as Caitlin desperately took her hand.

  “Maire, please, you must tell him for me. To see Niall’s eyes, the hurt. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Oh, Caitlin, no, I can’t—”

  “Aye, Maire, you must, it’s the only way! But not here, not until you return to Glenmalure. He’d want to find Brian, they’d fight, I know it! And if either of them were wounded, dear God, or worse—oh, please, Maire! Triona can help you. Triona will know what to say to Niall.”

  Caitlin’s pleading voice echoing in her mind, Maire closed her eyes and prayed fervently that Triona would, indeed, know the right words to say. Niall trusted her, had thought Triona the perfect match for Ronan the moment he’d seen her and then done all he could to help bring them together—

  Another burst of laughter startled Maire, and so abruptly that she jerked upon the reins, making her snow-white gelding snort and toss his head. At once it seemed Niall appeared at her side, his hand reaching out to steady the prancing animal, his handsome face grown sober with concern.

  “Maire—”

  “I’m fine, Niall, truly.” Her cheeks hot with chagrin, she wished she’d been more careful with her mount. All it ever took was the slightest hint of difficulty to send either Niall, Ronan, or both brothers rushing to her aid, their overprotectiveness of her undiminished despite the miraculous progress she’d made.

  Or so the priest who often visited from the monastery in Glendalough claimed it to be, a miracle. Maire knew that regaining the use of legs long denied her since a childhood fever, had taken months of hard work as well as countless prayers in her bed at night that one day she might walk as gracefully as Triona or Caitlin, or any other woman. She walked, that was true, but graceful she was not, and wondered if she would ever be.

  Mayhap it was that obvious flaw which kept her brothers so vigilant, her awkward gait a constant reminder that they must shield her from hurt of any kind. And after what had
happened last autumn …

  Maire sighed softly, shoving the unhappy memories away and glancing at Niall to find him studying her, his expression grown thoughtful. At once she mustered a smile, but he didn’t appear convinced.

  “Begorra, little sister, that’s a halfhearted attempt if ever I’ve seen one. Out with it now. What’s troubling you? You’ve hardly spoken since we left Ferns, not like you at all” —a slow grin lit Niall’s face— “though I admit I’d be more worried if Triona ever grew silent. Aye, that’s a thought now, isn’t it?”

  His low chuckling doing much to quell her sense of panic, Maire tried to keep her voice light. “Things wouldn’t be half as lively, to be sure. Not for Ronan, not for any of us.”

  “And they’ll be livelier still when she hears there’s soon to be a wedding. Damned if it hasn’t been the longest two years of my life! Yet I’d never have met Caitlin if not for Triona, and we all know that to be true. She’ll think herself a fine matchmaker now, the very finest in Wicklow … Maire?”

  It happened so fast, tears welling in her eyes, that Maire cursed that she’d never been one to conceal her emotions. Niall sharply reined in his horse and dismounted, coming to her side.

  “It’s nothing to trouble yourself over, Niall O’Byrne, nothing,” she said brokenly, knowing the wretched sound of her voice alone would leave him anything but certain that all was well. Within an instant she was pulled gently from her horse, Niall holding fast to her arm as he drew her away from their clansmen, who had reined in their mounts and waited silently, Fiach and several others keeping wary eyes upon the surrounding woods.