Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) (13 page)

Christabel's cries of triumph were deafening, but Maryssa felt a niggling indignation as, with the pride of a David after slaying his Goliath, Reeve bowed to his whooping teammates.

“That was not just!" Maryssa blustered. "He tripped Tade on purpose!"

Christabel giggled, giving Maryssa a hug. "If you plan to watch hurling you'd best get accustomed to it. Especially between Reeve and Tade. They've been attempting to murder each other out there since they were chin high. But I must say, Tade seems a bit off his game today. Unless he starts minding what he's about, they're like to have to cart him home on a litter."

"A litter? Can they get—"

"Injured?" Christabel supplied, somber for a moment. "Sometimes. Sometimes badly. The ball moves so fast, and the sticks . . . you've seen how hard they swing them. Last spring Jamie Scanlon was struck with the ball in his leg, and even now he can scarce hobble about. And Reeve told me once he saw a man—" Christabel stopped, plucking at the lace on her gown.

Maryssa felt a shiver of dread chill her spine, her gaze locking on the tall, dark Irishman shoving himself up from the turf. "Don't you get scared? Watching Tade—I mean, Reeve—when he might—"

"No. The best players, men like Tade and my Reeve, have almost an uncanny sense about where the ball is. They may get grazed by it or bruised a bit, but most likely the only thing damaged on your fair knight will be his pride." She gave Maryssa's arm a comforting squeeze. " Of course, it is no wonder the poor man is stumbling about so," Christabel said, dimpling. "I am certain it is passing difficult trying to hit the ball when you've one eye upon the edge of the field."

Stunned at the implication of Christabel's words, Maryssa looked back to where Tade had bent down to retrieve his stick. The green eyes did flash her way for an instant from beneath the arc of arm and sweat-stained shirt. He straightened, and even from a distance Maryssa could sense a sheepishness in his gaze that made her smile. The dread knotting inside her eased as her eyes followed the masculine lines of broad shoulders, taut waist, narrow hips—perfectly honed muscles too strong to be cut down by flailing sticks or a small leather-covered ball.

Her smile deepened at the calming thought, then widened into a grin as Reeve sauntered over to Tade and dusted off the dirt clinging to the Irishman's shirtfront with a cocksure air that sent everyone in the clearing into gales of laughter.

Tade's mouth moved as if he was murmuring something under his breath for Reeve alone to hear, but the sprightly Englishman merely danced back to the center of the field, brandishing his hurley as if it were a victor's laurels.

Maryssa let her gaze stray to the faces of those ringing the field, wanting to take this shared lightsomeness into herself and hold it. The thrill of the game and Reeve's comical antics seemed to have banished the resentment she had sensed ever since her father's name had been mentioned, yet as her eyes skimmed about, the happiness she wished to share vanished. For the first time she became aware of the distance separating her and Christabel from the crowd's excited laughter. From the people themselves.

It was as if a wind-witch had stolen in with her broom and swept the grass about the boulder free of its spangling of bright-skirted girls and rosy-cheeked mothers. The babes that had gamboled among the wildflowers now skirted the boulder as widely as though it were the lair of some fearsome beast, while their elders sat crowded together on the turf as far away from the boulder's base as the scrubby trees bordering the clearing would allow.

Maryssa fastened her gaze on the hurling match again, her hands balling in her lap. The roars of approval and groans of dismay from the rest of those watching still rang out with every strike of wood on horsehide. Yet as the hour passed, even Christabel's chatter and the magic of Tade Kilcannon's powerful grace as he drove the ball time and again past the goal could not hide the circle of emptiness about her. It pressed in from all sides, crushing her with a loneliness that stung hot and sharp at her eyelids.

The sun had crept halfway across the sky in its afternoon trek to the mountains when Maryssa saw Tade's gaze flick yet again to her face, as it had with increasing frequency during the seemingly endless game.

With each quick glance, the grim concentration that had furrowed his brow had shifted, his mouth pulling down at the corners in an expression of puzzled concern. Crystal green, his eyes locked on hers, clinging but a second before she saw the leather-covered ball, round and hard, slam off the blade of Reeve's stick and hurtle toward Tade with killing speed. Maryssa tried to cry out in warning. Couldn't.

As if he had caught the movement from the corner of his eye, Tade spun at that instant to meet it, swinging his hurley upward. But the ash-wood blade slicing the air never even neared its target. Maryssa stared in horror, a scream strangling her throat as the ball slammed with bone-shattering force into the sweat-sheened plane of Tade Kilcannon's forehead.

"
T
ade
!" Maryssa bolted to her feet atop the boulder, scarcely aware the name had been torn from her own throat as his dark head snapped back, the momentum of the blow driving him onto the turf with a strength that slammed the breath from his lungs. Rough-edged curses erupted from the field as hurling sticks were flung aside. Countenances that had been fierce with competition bare seconds ago were now taut and pale as the men dashed toward the tall figure sprawled on the ground.

Maryssa's fingernails gouged deep into her palms as she fought to see past the other hurlers closing in about Tade, but she caught only glimpses of lawn shirt and doeskin breaches through the maze of legs—Tade's shirt and breeches, and the blanched face of Reeve Marlow as he shoved his way through the circle of men.

“Get out of the way, you dolts!" Reeve's worried shout split the air as his sandy head disappeared beneath the sea of broad shoulders. "The man has to breathe!"

The words seemed to clutch, viselike about Maryssa's throat. Breathe! Dear God, was Tade—no!

Oblivious to the throng all around Tade, to the boulder's rough edges slicing her palms, Maryssa scrambled to the ground. She heard Christabel call out, heard the clack of clogs against stone as her friend followed her, but Maryssa paused not an instant as she dashed onto the field with a speed she had not known she possessed.

The thick layers of her gown were scooped high in her knotted fists, the clumsy pattens on her shoes tilting crazily on the uneven ground, as she plunged through the others hurrying onto the field. But even the resentful murmurs and hissed oaths of those she passed could not slow her. Slamming her hands against broad backs and crooked arms, she pushed her way through the men still ringing their fallen comrade.

The sight that met her eyes when she at last broke through the tall shielding of bodies drove a spike deep into the pit of her stomach. His impish freckled face drawn into a scowl, Reeve Marlow bent over Tade, while Tade—vital, laughing Tade with his devilish smile and soul-melting kiss—lay death-still on the grass, the dark waves of his hair clinging to a face robbed of all color, the rich curls of his lashes fanning out in half circles on the crests of his cheeks. With a tiny cry, Maryssa crumpled to the ground beside him, drawing his dark head into the pillow of her lap.

She smoothed the waving strands of hair back from pale, cold skin, the feel of slight beard stubble abrading her palms, the scent of him, warm and alive, taunting her as she stroked the face that had tormented her dreams this past night.

"Tade," she quavered, raising tortured eyes to the man bending over him. "Reeve is he—"

"No!" Reeve snapped. "Damn you, Kilcannon, I didn't hit you that hard!"

"Beau'ful."

The wisp of a word was so soft it was nearly lost in the ragged edges of Reeve's voice. Maryssa's stunned gaze darted down to where Tade's head lay pillowed in the nest of her skirts.

Heavy lashes fluttering to half-mast, Tade's unfocused eyes turned up, pausing at the rounded curves of breasts inches from his mouth before laboriously rising to her face. Lips that had been so still twitched into a grin. "'Ryssa," he slurred, burrowing the back of his head deeper into her lap with a contented sound. "'S beau'ful. C' stay 'ere fever."

"T-Tade?" She leaned over him to catch his murmured words, cradling his face in her arms. "Are—are you hurt? Are you—"

"Mmmm, won'ful." His eyes drooped closed and he gave a sated sigh. "Won'ful," he whispered. "If you'd—"

"If I'd what, Tade?"

The moist heat of his breath stirred the lace edging the low neckline of her gown, his words so soft she could scarcely hear him. "If you'd jus' bend . . . a little . . . lower."

In a flash his head swept up, warm lips catching hers in a quick, sweet kiss.

Maryssa jerked upright, hot fire staining her cheeks as if his mouth had burned her, horrified that the people crowding near had seen. But the only hint of humor lay in Tade's own mouth, its sensual lines tipped into a wry, wobbly grin. Eyes that had been clouded with confusion now peered up at her, a touch of their old devilment sparkling in their green depths.

She dumped his head out of her lap, taking self-righteous pleasure in his grimace of pain as the back of his head thunked onto the ground.

"Tade Kilcannon," she sputtered, "you—" Maryssa's indignant tirade was cut short by a raw curse from somewhere in the crowd, the people nearest her falling away as if an ax blade had been driven between them.

Maryssa looked up, the ire coursing through her tightening into a thin band of fear as she stared into Kane Kilcannon’s furious features. Rust-colored brows slashed over narrowed eyes. His warring-king features were twisted in a way that would have turned the stoutest heart coward. Even the sight of Devin's gentle, troubled face beneath a homespun hood could not still the quaking inside her at the wrath in Kane's sharp eyes. Maryssa swallowed, her mouth going dry.

A flash of pink skirts swirled toward her behind a glimpse of stocky legs as Reeve jumped over Tade's outstretched limbs to stand at her side. She felt Tade struggling upright, heard Reeve's placating voice break in, "Good morrow, Mr. Kilcannon, sir, we were having a bit of hurling when Tade—"

"I can see just exactly what my son's been having a bit of!" Kane spat, his mouth contorting in disgust. Maryssa cringed as the elder Kilcannon's eyes swept over her with the same blatant aversion he would accord the lowliest doxy at Hell's Gate. "Bainbridge Wylder's little—"

"Da!" Tade bit out the warning in a voice surprisingly clear, the lines about his mouth whitening as he gained his feet. One hand reached down, grasping Maryssa's icy fingers to draw her up, and she could feel the slight unsteadiness still gripping him. "Da, I was struck with the ball. Maryssa just—"

"Maryssa, is it? I had no idea the heir Kilcannon had taken to calling Sassenach thieves by their first names."

Maryssa took an involuntary step back, wanting only to be free of the scathing hatred in Kane Kilcannon's face and the rumble of agreement from the crowd, but Tade's fingers tightened around hers, his face snapping taut with challenge.

"And I had no idea you put so little value on the life of your son."

"Don't you dare to—"

"To what? Remind you that we owe her Devin's life? Nay, not only Dev's but our own as well? Tell me, Da, what comfort would your damned stiff pride be with Devin under the hoodman's knife?"

"And what comfort will your cursed dalliance be when Bainbridge Wylder strings you from his stable rafters for trifling with his daughter? Do you think Wylder has not heard of your many conquests?" A hot flush of humiliation stained Maryssa's cheeks as Kane's lip curled in disdain. “You've made yourself as legendary for your dalliances as English Charles."

Tade's jaw hardened to granite. "What I did or did not do in the past has nothing to do with Maryssa."

"Damn it, Tade, look at her!" Maryssa flinched as Kane's hand shot out and clenched around her chin with a bruising grip. "She's a Wylder.”

"I don't care if she is child to the devil himself," Tade snarled, knocking loose his father's hand with a savagery that stunned the older man. "Don't ever lay hands on her like that again, or I'll forget you're my father."

"Aye, and you'll forget what her bastard father did. What he stole from—"

"Damn it, Da, enough!" Dangerous green eyes shifted to Devin, then moved in a glaring path to the throng surrounding them in uncomfortable silence. "Get him home, Dev," Tade grated. "There'll be no more hurling this day."

Maryssa felt one hard arm encircle her waist in a grip that seemed to dare her to balk as Tade spun her toward the Marlows’s cart and stalked through the crowd of gaping peasant-folk like a raging Caesar. Deirdre's face flashed past among the crowd, her freckled cheeks streaked with tears, her eyes spitting reproach and hatred as Tade paused to snatch up his boots. Maryssa shrank inwardly, eyes blurred with tears of hurt and humiliation as she dared a glance up at Tade's rage-taut face.

The mouth that an hour ago had been tossing jests with Reeve was now set in a grim line; the eyes that had shone the warm green of a sun-kissed glen glared straight ahead, burning with a fury that both frightened Maryssa and tugged at something deep inside her.

She wanted to smooth her fingers over his lips, soften them into a smile. She wanted to bury herself in her room, never to curse anyone with her presence again. What had she done? For nineteen years she had endured her father's hatred and the scorn of those around her. For nineteen years she had been alone. But this man wore his family's love about him like an aged mantle, its folds mellowed with security, faith, and a thousand cherished memories.

And in a single afternoon she had somehow ripped it from him. The cart from which Tade had teasingly plucked her only an hour before swam in front of her eyes, the cheery cushions a mockery as he swung her back up into their softness. She shrank into the worn velvet as he vaulted in beside her, his athlete's body tense as a coiled whip.

Through a haze of tears Maryssa saw Reeve settle Christabel on the driver's bench, then clamber up himself. Hazel eyes, dark with concern, slanted over his shoulder. "Tade, shall we—"

Maryssa winced at the harsh tones, feeling the relentless clenching and unclenching of Tade's white-knuckled fists on his thighs as if his fingers were tightening around her own flesh. The sympathy she saw as Christabel turned toward her, then quickly away, tore at her heart.

Why?
Maryssa wanted to scream as the cart jolted into motion.
What hideous trait lurks within me that drives people to hatred? That harms those I love? Why did I dare to taste happiness even for an hour?

She shut her eyes, remembering Tade's smile dancing up at her as he bound her ribbon about his arm, remembering the feel of his arm against her waist, the mischief in his grin as he had stolen the kiss. And now she had somehow tainted his life as well, sullying the love that had bound him to his sister and his father.

"Tade," she whispered through trembling lips.

His face angled down at her, dark brows slashed in sharp relief against his forehead. Maryssa winced inwardly at the angry bruise purpling his sleek bronzed flesh. Her gaze dropped to her hands.

"It is time I went home."

"No!" She flinched at his sharp reply, tears beading the corners of her eyes, then spilling free. One bronzed fist unclenched, stealing up to her cheek, gentle, so gentle. "No."

"But your father—"

"Is an old man nursing wounds that have nothing to do with you."

"But don't you see? They have everything to do with me. You love him and he loves you, and because of me you were raging as if you hated each other."

"Maura—"

"I'm well enough used to scenes like that, but you aren't and..."

Strong arms, smelling of sunshine, meadow grass, and sharp male sweat circled around her, drawing her against the warm refuge of his chest. "Hush, love. Maura, don’t.”

"I don't know what I do, Tade, to stir people's hatred.”

"You do nothing, Maura. Nothing," he said fiercely. "Don't take their hate inside you and let it tear at you this way." Hard, callused palms reached down to cup her face, forcing it gently from where it was buried in his shirtfront. Fingertips smoothed over tear-wet cheeks, sable curls, quivering lips. "Let them tend the fires of their grudges until they are in their graves," he said huskily, "while we tend other flames that burn more brightly."

With infinite slowness his parted lips dipped to hers, and in his eyes she could see understanding and some other, nameless emotion that set waves of heat pulsing through her veins. The firm lines of his mouth pressed deep into the quivering softness of her own, soothing her, wooing her, as if he would take her inside himself, banishing forever the demons that tormented her. And she wanted him to, wanted to drown in the haven he offered.

Far too soon his lips drifted away. Maryssa reached up a trembling finger, touching the kiss-reddened curves. Eyes smoky, brooding as a forest primeval, bored into hers.

"Maura," he said, his voice raspy. "Stay."

The pain shadowing the scene at the clearing seemed to swell, then burst inside Maryssa. The tiniest of smiles played at the corners of her mouth as she dropped her gaze back to her hands.

Tade's finger crooked beneath her chin, tilting her face up to meet the light of his own faint grin. "And what, pray tell, is this smile for?" he asked, brushing his thumb across her lips.

"It sounds so foolish, but do you know this is the first time in my life that anyone has asked me to stay with them?"

The smile curving Tade's sensual lips faded; his eyes were dark and serious as they searched hers. Maryssa felt them delve inside her. She saw him tipping his face toward hers, felt his breath sweet upon her lips. But before the warmth of his mouth could close again over hers, the cart wheel lurched into a rut, almost bouncing her onto his lap.

A grin spread over Tade's face, only the slightest tautness at the corners of his mouth betraying the tension still within him as he arched one black brow devilishly. "Hit three more ruts like that, Reeve, and I should have Maura exactly where I want her," he called.

Only a hint of a blush tinted Maryssa's cheeks as Reeve and Christabel turned their heads to look at her. The worried affection evident in their beloved faces warmed Maryssa's heart, and she vowed silently that she would not be the cause of further ruining the outing they had planned for her with such loving care. She forced her lips into a smile.

Such genuine expressions of relief crossed the Marlows' faces that the stiffness of Maryssa's lips softened. Christabel dimpled. The tiniest sparkle of mischief returned to Reeve's eyes as he turned to Tade.

"Where you want her, eh, Mr. Kilcannon?" he repeated, peering down his nose with the priggishness of a parson. "Well, you had best mind proprieties, sirrah. I have no intention of abandoning our Maryssa to a wretch such as you."

"Your Maryssa is quite capable of defending herself, thank you very much," Tade groaned ruefully, rubbing the back of his head. "Upon the field she dumped me out of her lap so fast I vow she gave me a lump to rival the one you dealt me."