A Rose in Splendor (43 page)

Killian watched her go. It was not a pretty beginning. He did not have the soft words a lady needed to hear. He had blundered through in a loud voice that had only made her angrier and more determined to remain. Yet, stubbornness was no substitute for reason.

For the first time since entering the castle, he wondered what had become of the men accompanying them. Had they not found the bridge across the Bandon? A few steps brought him to the nearby window which looked out onto the front lawn. Sean and his companion were not there. Neither were they visible in the distance. They had disappeared.

He raised his eyes to the rocky outcropping of the nearest hill and saw a thin gray-white thread of smoke rising from a clump of trees. Unconsciously his hand touched the pistol he had tucked in his waistband.

*

“Mille murdher!”
Deirdre muttered, imitating Conall’s voice when he was at his most disgusted with her. “That man will not see reason!”

If Darragh and Conall were here they would not have been so unconcerned by the fate of Liscarrol, nor would they have been dismayed by the amount of work needed to restore it. They would have stood by her and helped her plan its reconstruction.

But as she walked across the floor of the Great Hall she could not help taking quick, sidelong glances at the wreckage about her. Killian was right, of course—they could not do all the work themselves. “But we can make a beginning!” With that in mind, she headed out through the main doorway and toward the stables.

Killian had been right, too, in his assessment of her lack of interest in money matters. It was not from her lack of experience with finances, however. With her brothers and father away most of her life and Lady Elva often in delicate health, she had taken responsibility early for the
household accounts. She knew the cost of cheese and linen, a fair price for a keg of ale or a tinker’s pot. She knew her own finances to the last sou, of which there were very few left, she mused ruefully. She was not extravagant. She had asked for nothing from Killian but passage to Ireland. Yet, she should have considered that he was not a wealthy man. He had been a soldier, but, unlike her brothers and father, he was not a nobleman and his wages must have been meager.

A pang of guilt made her stop and glance back at the gray somber walls of Liscarrol. Somewhere inside it, Killian was no doubt pacing and swearing. Even so, the glow of pride warmed her as she stared at her ancestral home. She was home, where she belonged. And, because she had married him, Liscarrol was now as much Killian’s as hers. She would remind him of that.

The day had begun to grow cloudy. In the short space of an hour a dark band of rain had risen from the southwest. As she watched, it crested a distant hill, obscuring the ridge in a curtain of dark water. Pulling her hood forward against the cool air, she hurried across the yard into the low-roofed stable.

To her surprise, the stables had been left untouched. Other than the usual wear and tear of the seasons, the structure was sound and dry in contrast to the damp, lichen-plagued walls of the castle.

Lifting back her hood, she scanned the dark interior, surprised to find neatly swept stalls and half a dozen bales of hay stacked in the far corner. It almost seemed as if the stables were in use and empty now only because men and animals had departed for the day. But the tackle wall was empty of bridles and bits and no extra saddles hung from pegs.

“We will sleep here tonight,” she said with satisfaction when she had completed her tour. Killian would see that
she was uncomplaining and quite able to deal with the
rougher aspects of their new life.

To make certain he understood her unshakable decision to remain, she reached for the long-handled wooden shovel that stood in a corner of the tack room. The least she could
do was to begin by removing the offensive excrement from the chapel.

A rustling behind her made Deirdre turn back to the doorway where she half-expected to find that Killian had followed her. “I’m sorry I—”

No one was there. Through the open door the sky was darker than before and a gust of wind sent winter-old leaves scurrying into the stable.

“Killian?” Deirdre listened, certain she had heard footsteps. “Killian?”

The splatter of raindrops upon the ground outside began and ended abruptly. A blast of storm-borne wind whistled through the cracks in the stone walls of the stable, curling chilly fingers about Deirdre’s body. She clutched her cloak together with her free hand and hurried toward the entrance. It would soon be dark and they had not made preparations for the night.

As she entered the yard she was surprised to see how swiftly and completely mist had come down from the hills to cover the land. Less than a hundred yards away, Liscarrol had become a gray-shrouded citadel with its balustrades flying wispy mare’s tails of cloud.

The crunch of a twig nearby sent her spinning around, but no one stood behind her.

It was then that she heard it. The sound was faint but the rhythm was unmistakable. She turned to look toward the distant slopes of the Shehy Mountains.

It appeared out of the misty distances: the black specter of horse and rider. They swept down the long slope into the valley and disappeared into the low-lying fog. Yet, Deirdre realized that they had not vanished as the thunder of hooves grew closer, chasing the sound of her pounding heart.

Her hand tightened on the handle of the shovel but she was not afraid. She ran toward the place where she knew they would reappear. In his anger, Killian must have ridden off. But he had come back! Excitement pounded through her veins as she nearly tripped over a stone in her haste. She, too, had been angry, but all that was forgotten
now. He was so much a part of her that she could only welcome him.

When they reappeared out of the mists, rider and horse were so close upon her that she could hear their harsh breathing above the muffled tattoo of hooves. The swift-moving pair seemed not to see her, so headlong was their flight. Just when she thought they would pass her by, the rider reined in before her, his black cloak swirling forward of its own momentum to cover him from shoulder to boot.

“Killian!” she cried. Dropping the shovel, she lifted her arms to him as rain splashed down into her upturned face.

The rider jerked back. “Stay away!” he cried, and though his face was obscured by his hood she recognized his voice. “Stay away in fear for your life,
mo cuishle
!”

“Wait! No! Killian!” Deirdre called after him, surprise turning into alarm as he turned his horse. She grabbed for him and caught the left stirrup. “No! Wait! Please! I’m sorry, sorry, Killian!”

He looked down at her, his strangely light eyes the only feature of him visible, and then he brought his hand down sharply.

Deirdre released her hold instantly but it was a moment later before the sharp sting of pain made her look down at the back of her hand, and she realized what had happened. A single bloody stripe lay diagonally across it. He had struck her with his riding crop.

She looked up but it was too late. He was gone. Even the sound of hooves was drowned by the sudden torrential cloudburst that flattened thick cold raindrops against her face. Killian had rejected her! Had struck her!

Tears formed in her eyes, obscuring what the mists and rains did not as she turned and stumbled blindly for shelter. Killian had been so eager to get away from her that he had used a brutal cut of his whip to free himself. Was it possible that he could be so angry in the aftermath of their argument?

“What the devil! Are you truly and thoroughly mad!”

The rough anger in Killian’s tone did not surprise Deirdre as much as the fact that she was caught by the
shoulders as soon as she entered Liscarrol. She looked up, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Well? Will you freeze me with your silence?” Killian demanded as he took in the shocked look on her face. Then he realized that she expected him to still be angry. He smiled at her. “Come, we’re not so civilized that a good fight should spoil a marriage of one month.”

“Good fight?” Deirdre echoed in stunned outrage. “Good fight! You call this a good fight?” She lifted her injured hand to his face.

Killian looked first at her hand and then at her damp face with golden curls plastered to her forehead. “What’s this? A token for me to kiss, perhaps?” He took her hand in his to bring it to his lips but she jerked it away before his mouth touched her skin.

“Do not play the courtier with me, you
spalpeen
!
’Tis the cut of your whip that mars my hand!”

Killian looked at her, frowning. “Cut of a whip? Deirdre,
acushla
,
what cut?”

Too enraged to find words, Deirdre drew back her hand to strike him but she never completed the gesture. Her hand halted in mid-air as she stared at it. The skin was unbroken. Not a drop of blood marred its surface. It was smooth, unblemished, untouched.

She looked back up at Killian, a stricken look in her eyes. “You were riding in the hills just now.”

“Never I was,” Killian answered. His frown deepened. “Why do you say that?”

Deirdre bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood. He could have ridden away from the house and then circled back to beat her to the doorway, but how would he have remained dry? And dry he was, from his raven-black locks to the fine dry dust on his boot tips. Not even a cape would have prevented his feet from being wet. “What color is your horse?”

“What is the matter, Dee? You’re shaking.”

“Just answer me, confound you!”

Killian released her and looked past her to the yard where the early-spring storm spent itself on the surrounding countryside. He watched for a long moment, but there
was no sign of man or beast in the violence beyond the door. “Were you frightened, chased, is that it? And you thought it was I?”

“I—I do not know.” Deirdre buried her face in her hands. Was she mad? She had recognized him, knew his posture when he rode, had gazed up into those dearly loved blue eyes. It wasn’t a trick of her imagination. It could not have been. The sting of the whip had been so real. She jerked her hand away from her eyes to look at it again. Bloodless. Smooth. Was she mad?

“Hold me! Please!”

Killian enfolded her tightly in his arms. “Of course,
macushla
.”
She was wet clean through. Where she stood a widening puddle was forming. “You’re trembling! Won’t you tell me what happened?” But Deirdre merely turned her head from side to side against the front of his coat as her hands tightened on his waist.

“Never mind. I’ve managed a fire.” He nearly laughed as he thought how inappropriate a fire seemed in this burned-out hulk. But Deirdre was in no state to appreciate his humor. He lifted her off the floor and into his arms. “Come and sit by the fire to dry. You may tell me later what occurred.”

*

“And you were certain that it was I?” Killian turned to look down at her. Huddled beneath his cloak, she crouched before the fire he had built in the hearth of the Great Hall while her clothes lay spread out on the floor to dry.

“I thought it was you,” Deirdre replied. Now that she was dry and safe, her story sounded like childish babble in her own ears. “I suppose the blow startled me so badly I imagined the blood.” Even as she spoke, the back of her
hand stung and she rubbed it, but there was no welt.

She raised shamed eyes to her husband’s face. “I am not mistaken. If it was not you, then it was someone else. I saw him. He spoke to me.” She dared not add,
in your voice
.
“I touched his boot. He was real.”

“Could it have been Sean or the other man? They had disappeared. Could one of them have frightened you?”

Deirdre hunched her shoulders. “It was not either man. I would have recognized them.” She left unrepeated that she had recognized
him
as the stranger. She looked up. “Where are the men?”

Killian shrugged. “We’ve been deserted.”

“Our clothes? Our food?”

“I saw the pack animals running free just before the storm blew in. I will search for them at first light.”

Deirdre lowered her head once more. None of that seemed very important at the moment.

Killian considered the possibilities. Deirdre was unaccustomed to hard travel. Liscarrol’s devastation had been an unexpected blow to her dreams of a triumphant return home. Perhaps she had fallen asleep or simply been daydreaming. His mouth thinned. It was not difficult to think of a reason why she would cast him as a villain in her reverie. After all, they had quarreled repeatedly during the last days. They were newly married.

The thought carried Killian’s attention back to the cloak Deirdre wore. Underneath it she was naked. On the five days’ journey from Cork they had had no privacy to indulge their passion, which ran like wildfire beneath the battles they fought. The thought of her warm and soft and his made him stand in his breeches, but he did not move toward her.

He had heard it said that gently bred girls often took time to adjust to the married state. Lovemaking had come naturally to Deirdre but that did not mean it had not frightened her. They had parted on angry words. Perhaps she had seen someone and thought it was he coming to apologize.