Wild Roses Page 3

  “So he has often said. I’ve not seen a man more in love.”

  She caught Duncan’s gaze, and he swore he saw more than a hint of feminine challenge in those disarming blue eyes before she gave him an archly appraising look. “And what of you? Have you decided upon a wife yet?”

  His jaw tightening, Duncan shook his head, which made her squeeze his arm in a poor attempt at sympathy.

  “So I thought. You know, brother, mourning for a woman long dead won’t give you heirs to protect so grand an estate. How many years has it been since Gisele … ?”

  “Six.” Glad that they had come to the high table, Duncan disengaged his arm. “It’s late, Adele, and the day has been a taxing one—”

  “Oh, Duncan, surely you’re not thinking of retiring so soon! And if I’ve distressed you—dear heavens, I promise I won’t mention her name again. Yet it only proves further that a wife is just what you need, and I insist you allow me to help. If we can’t find a young woman of suitable rank among our kind here in Ireland, we could always send a messenger to London and request that the Court arrange—”

  “By the blood of God, woman, is that why you’ve come to Meath?”

  His roar silencing the bedlam in the hall, Duncan felt all eyes suddenly upon him, minstrels, servants, and drunken knights alike staring in surprise. But his own men didn’t appear unduly concerned, Gerard calmly sampling a cup of wine, while Adele seemed less than startled, though two bright spots of color had touched her cheeks.

  “Indeed, Duncan, I see your temper remains in high form. Perhaps it would be best if we talked tomorrow … after you’ve had a chance to rest. As you said, your day was a taxing one. I only hope you find the night passes more pleasantly …”

  She didn’t say more, a cryptic smile upon her generously curved lips, but turned to rejoin her knights at the high table. Yet Duncan caught her arm, firmly drawing her back to face him.

  “One thing, Adele. If your retainers are indeed under your command, given Reginald’s demise, then warn them well that I’ll not have my servingwomen suffer any abuse during your short visit. Have your own maidservants see to their lusty amusements, not mine. Are we understood?”

  Just as firmly easing her arm from his grasp, Adele gave a regal nod. “Of course, brother. We are simply guests here, for however long our stay. Not marauders. Oh, and as for your own lusty amusements, I’ve met—now, what was her name? Ah, yes, Flanna. Pretty enough for an Irish wench, though I’ve seen prettier. I enjoy some comfort that your longheld grief hasn’t kept you from taking women to your bed. Sleep soundly.”

  Again she gave a curious smile, but Duncan didn’t tarry to wonder at its meaning, her words alone a none-too-subtle taunt. That Adele had met his mistress Flanna—damn his sister! She was already sniffing into matters that were none of her concern, and after a stay of only a few hours’ time!

  So it appeared, an interminable day that had merely plagued him before now become a blight of epic proportions. Striding past Gerard, he thought to stop and warn him of the beautiful yet voracious fox now in their midst, but a sharp tug at his cloak distracted him.

  He spun around yet saw no one, until an amused cackle made him look down. No higher than his knees stood a misshapen little man wearing a bright red cloak and a matching cap, Adele’s court jester, who grinned at him from ear to ear and made a lewd gesture jabbing a stubby finger into a circle formed by his other thumb and forefinger.

  “Sweet dreams, Baron. Sweet dreams!”

  Before Duncan could utter an oath, the dwarf scuttled away and took refuge under a nearby table, which was a very good thing. Harboring dark fantasies of throwing Adele’s entire entourage into the moat, the time-honored tradition of hospitality to one’s guests be damned, Duncan was only too glad to leave the hall. That the sanctity of his home had been so shattered was almost more than he could bear.

  “My lord! My lord, wait!”

  He didn’t wait. Faustis was puffing with exertion as the steward caught up with him at the tower stairs leading to his private apartment.

  “My lord, there is something I must tell—”

  “Not now, Faustis!”

  “But my lord—”

  “Not now!” And he meant it, Duncan taking the stone steps three at a time, his fury only mildly abating as the noise from the great hall began to recede. He didn’t stop until he had slammed the door to his bedchamber behind him and thrown the bolt, the quiet which greeted him making him swear with relief.

  Chapter 3

  Peace.

  If there was any refuge for him at Longford Castle, it was this place, a group of well-appointed rooms including the outer chamber, where he now flung off his cloak and began to strip from his armor, a huge bedchamber, and a smaller side room that held his precious collection of books and an oaken table, where he would sit and work often late into the night. But this evening he thought only of sleep, the bone weariness he’d felt earlier returning like a heavy blow and making him feel a man older than his twenty-eight winters.

  Long bloody years of fighting in King John’s armies had made it so. His body bore the marks of many battles, the worst one a deep, ugly scar across his chest that had nearly cost him his life. Yet it had won him, too, a king’s gratitude, his reward the very land upon which Longford Castle stood.

  A fierce sense of possession gripping him, Duncan dropped his hauberk upon a bench, the chain mail thunking heavily. Again the calming silence was broken as his stockings and shoes of mail, made of one piece, followed, and he wondered then why Flanna hadn’t come from the bedchamber to greet him. Not so tired that he didn’t feel a jolt of desire at the thought of her soft lips and willing body, Duncan felt renewed irritation, too, that Adele had found his Irish mistress somehow lacking.

  “Dammit, man, you’ll think of that blasted woman no more this night!” he vowed angrily to himself, though he knew that forcing his half sister from his mind would be impossible. That she was under his roof, her very presence an unwelcome reminder of all in his life he wanted to forget, permeated his thoughts as the offensively sweet smell of her perfume had the great hall.

  With an emphatic curse, Duncan stripped off his padded gambeson and then hauled his sweaty undertunic over his head, the air in the chamber suddenly cool against his bare skin. Flexing sore muscles, he knew he could use a bath, the long day’s stink upon him, but he couldn’t stomach summoning servants for the commotion they would bring with the hot water. Instead he strode into the next room, a spacious chamber bathed in dim light from the low guttering fire in the hearth.

  As quiet as the anteroom, Duncan’s gaze went at once to the massive canopied bed, Flanna snuggled so deeply under the covers that he could barely see the top of her dark head.

  Strange, that she could be too tired to greet him. Usually wine would be poured, a sensual welcome in her teasing green eyes. Wondering if Adele had said something to distress her, he decided against waking her, afraid of the flood of tears that might provoke. If there was anything that wearied him about Flanna, it was her petulant nature; any small slight on the part of the servants was sure to bring on a bout of pouting or weeping. At first it had amused him, but now …

  Sighing heavily, Duncan poured his own goblet of wine from the pitcher placed near the bed, then settled into a carved chair in front of the hearth. He stretched out his legs, kneading a stiff muscle in his thigh, the fire warming his flesh if not his mood. He lifted the goblet and drank deeply, then leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes.

  It wasn’t Flanna’s petulance that wearied him. In truth, no woman amused him for long. It was an impossible thing, a cold fact to which he’d grown accustomed. None could ever compare … would ever compare, to Gisele.

  He really hadn’t thought of her for weeks, tried not to think of her at all, but now her image seemed to drift in front of him—her long honey hair rivaling the brightness of the sun, her smile, the love shining in her eyes, as radiant—making his stomach knot and his
heart thunder. Any tears had been shed long ago, but the piercing ache inside him remained as surely as he breathed.

  She was to have been his bride. But he had lost her. Only days before the secret wedding they had planned, fate dealt the cruelest of blows. And now Adele had come to Ireland to help him find a wife …

  A laugh as grim as Duncan felt echoed around the chamber, his throat grown so painfully tight that he could barely finish his wine. Settle for another after he had known perfection? The sound of the empty goblet, too, scraping upon the stone floor when he set it down, seemed as bleak, and he scowled when a soft sigh came from the bed.

  God’s teeth, he was in no fit temper to contend with Flanna’s complaints! Hoping that he hadn’t woken her, he rose and moved silently to the bed, relieved to see that she still lay almost completely covered by blankets, her back to him. Which was odd, too, considering how she preferred to sleep cuddled against him, but tonight he was more than thankful for the respite.

  Just as quietly he stripped out of his braies and climbed in naked beside her, turning his back as well. He heard another small sigh, and felt her shift ever so slightly, but he ignored her and shut his eyes.

  ***

  So quiet. So dark. Fearing she might be in her own grave, Maire couldn’t move for long moments, didn’t dare move, only the dull throbbing in her head convincing her finally that she was yet alive. But why then, did she feel as if she were smothering … ?

  She blinked several times, something warm and soft over her face that slow recognition told her was no grave at all, but a woolen blanket that smelled of fresh air as if recently hung to dry in the sun—

  Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, the sun! Desperately she squeezed her eyes closed, but she could not shut out the horrible memories rushing in upon her. Pain, such dreadful pain, and blinding sunlight, and shrill feminine laughter that pounded within her skull like a thousand hammers. And Fiach, oh God, poor Fiach and the others … all slaughtered. Dead.

  Again she couldn’t move, her fear so sharp that she tasted blood from biting her lips. Where was she? Where were the Normans who had attacked them?

  More memories assaulted her, making her begin to tremble, making her remember the horror of being pursued, of lying helpless upon the ground, of a cool hand gliding like a mythic serpent across the side of her head. Words came to her, too, in a foreign tongue known to her only because Ronan had insisted his people learn well the language of their hated enemies, yet in her mind they were more sounds than sense. She had been in such fierce pain …

  Maire slowly, cautiously, lifted shaking fingers to just above her left temple, wincing at the sizable lump that ached dreadfully at her touch. She wondered then if she could sit up, even walk, for the wave of dizziness that assailed her when she lifted her head slightly and lowered the blanket to her chin, noticing out of the corner of her eye a low flicker of flames.

  Relief swept her, dulling some of her fear. She wasn’t completely in the dark. Yet the next moment she was stricken by confusion at her surroundings when she dared once more to lift her head.

  She had never seen such a place before, the dying fire in the hearth revealing a room of massive proportions enclosed by somber stone walls, a high, timbered ceiling, and a trio of narrow, arched windows. The furnishings puzzled her, too, sparse but heavy and richly carved, and the bed in which she lay with its vermilion canopy was as large as any she’d ever—

  Saints preserve her, a bed? She almost laughed nervously at herself in the next instant, though her heart had begun to pound. Of course she lay in a bed if she were smothered in blankets, her head upon a soft pillow, a sturdy mattress beneath her—oh, God, where was she?

  Panic clawing at her, Maire gave no heed to her dizziness and lifted herself onto her elbow, her hair falling across her bare breasts. Bare … ? Incredulous, she stared at her nakedness, her heart nearly leaping from her chest at the sudden shifting beside her.

  “Dammit, Flanna, lie down. Go back to sleep.”

  Maire froze, a heavy masculine hand covering her shoulder.

  “Anything that’s troubling you, we’ll talk of tomorrow. Now lie down.”

  She couldn’t blink, couldn’t breathe, crying out when she was pushed gently but insistently back onto the pillow.

  “Woman, it’s too late for tears— Ah, God’s teeth, come here.”

  Maire was enveloped so suddenly in a powerful embrace, hard, muscular arms drawing her close, that she had no chance to fend off her captor. Stricken, she felt a warm nuzzling at her neck. Her heart pounded furiously as a callused palm covered a breast and squeezed gently, arousing shivers unlike anything she’d known. Yet when she felt his other splayed hand glide down her belly, his fingers slipping into the softness between her thighs while something rigid and wholly foreign to her nudged between her bottom—

  Maire’s shriek filled the air, her elbow grinding into her captor’s ribs with all her might as he swore in surprise and released her. Her only thought to flee, she lunged from the bed with such desperation that she forgot wholly her dizziness, forgot the limitations of her legs and went tumbling to the floor, tears of fright burning her eyes.

  “By the blood of God, what in blazes—?”

  Through her tangled hair she saw him come around the bed toward her, the Norman a hulking silhouette in the faint light and, Jesu help her, as naked as she! For she knew him to be an enemy, his marked accent one she could not forget.

  Terror filling her, she scooted away from him across the cold stone floor, knowing in her heart there was no escape, sobbing wretchedly that she had not legs with which to run, to save herself …

  Maire shrieked again when he caught her, fighting him and screeching as she’d never done before in her life as she was lifted into the air and carried back to the bed. But to her surprise the Norman merely wrenched a blanket from the mattress and then strode with her still struggling and flailing her arms to a chair in front of the hearth, where he plopped her down, his voice stern.

  “Here, wrap this around you. And don’t move, woman, do you understand me?”

  Dimly she felt herself nod, clutching the blanket to her breasts as he left her and went again to the bed, Maire so stunned she could but watch him grab a strange sort of breeches from the floor and don them. But he might as well still be naked for how snugly they fit his thighs, and her face grew hot as she thought of how he’d held her in the bed, the hardness of his body pressing against her …

  Maire swallowed and closed her eyes, shocked at herself, horrified that she would recall such a thing when her circumstances were so dire. Yet when she looked again, she was astonished anew that the Norman held out a brimming goblet to her, his expression grim but not unkind in the firelight.

  “Here, drink this wine. It will calm you.”

  Again she could but stare at him, his husky voice now more concerned than forbidding. Which made no sense. Not from everything she knew about Normans, everything she’d heard from Ronan and Niall over the years about their enemies’ vicious bloodlust and cruelty. And especially not from what she’d seen in the meadow, the bodies of her clansmen ruthlessly hacked to pieces.

  She must have paled, for the Norman took one of her trembling hands and gave her the goblet, then covering her hand with his own, brought the wine to her lips.

  “Drink.”

  Somehow she did, her face burning at how closely he leaned toward her, the jolt of red wine to her senses making her notice suddenly the striking cast of his features, his dark hair long to the neck much like Ronan’s, yet not wholly brown or black, and the deep, vicious scar across a chest of powerful breadth that was matted with hair just as dusky.

  His nearness made her notice, too, the smell of him, not clean like the blanket but sweaty and blatantly masculine, the scent of saddle and horses clinging to him. Flushing, she noticed as well the hard pressure of his fingers upon hers, and she suddenly began to choke.

  “Easy …” Duncan set down the goblet and moved to rub her back, b
ut she recoiled from him so fearfully, still coughing, that he sat back on his haunches instead and waited until she recovered herself. That gave him a chance to study her, and to wonder again how the devil she had come to be in his bed.

  The wench was Irish, of that he had no doubt. She hadn’t needed to utter a word for him to discern her ancestry, her terrified reaction to him alone telling him much. She was no more comfortable with Normans, a plight shared by clans loyal to King John as well as not, than he had a clue to her presence in his chambers. Unless …

  Cold anger swept him, intuition once more gripping his gut.

  Damn the woman! Adele’s enigmatic smiles, her odd wish for him to have a pleasant night. Her criticism of Flanna that she’d seen prettier Irish women. And this wench was certainly lovely, beautiful in fact, her tangled midnight hair and eyes reddened from sobbing hardly marring her looks.

  Such exquisite gray eyes too, soft as a doe’s. He found himself staring into them, which was safer than at the tempting whiteness of her breasts, the blanket having drifted down when she began to choke on the wine. Unconsciously, he moved to lift the covering for her, but once more she drew away from him as if she thought him Satan reaching out to beckon her to hell.

  Duncan smiled grimly. As no doubt she did. He lifted the goblet and held it out to her. “More?”

  She shook her head, then grimaced so painfully that he wondered if she’d been hurt when she tumbled from the bed. Only then did he notice the swelling above her left temple, and he tensed. He hadn’t seen her strike her head. Then how …?

  Dark questions filling him, Duncan rose so suddenly that she cried out, grabbing the blanket beneath her chin like a shield as she looked up at him wide-eyed. Her stunning gaze held such distress, such fear, and such confusion too, that he could only wonder at what harsh events had brought her to Longford Castle.

  Duncan cursed at that thought and strode for the outer chamber, any hope now for a peaceful night shattered.