L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (10 page)

“Milord, do you need me for aught else?” Padrig asked.

“Nay. Go find Will, see if he has need of you,” Lord Connor said.
He smiled. “If he doesn’t, I’m sure you can find something to occupy you until
I need you in the morning.

“Aye, milord, thank you,” Padrig said in a rush. His bow so
hurried he nearly tripped over himself, he raced for the door. He halted just
inside the room, however, and turned. “By your leave, milady,” he said,
surprising Moira with the fact that he’d slowed his headlong pace for her.

“I thank you for helping Brigit, Padrig,” she said, hoping she
could return his serious expression and not offend him by smiling at his sudden
gravity. “God grant you a peaceful rest.”

He swept another bow, more formal this time, then negated the
effect when he dashed from the chamber. Brigit, chuckling beneath her breath,
bobbed a curtsy and followed him out with far less haste.

The door creaked closed, leaving Moira alone with Lord Connor.
“You don’t think he’s off to his bed already, do you?” Lord Connor asked with a
smile. “The revels were still going strong when I passed through the hall.”

“You’re probably correct, milord.” Suddenly uncertain what to say
or do, Moira gestured toward the table. “Shall we see what Padrig brought for
us?”

The smell of roast mutton and spices reached her on a gust of
wind coming through the drafty shutters, setting her stomach growling. The babe
chose that moment to kick and squirm. “All right, I’ll feed you,” she
whispered, laying a hand on her belly.

Lord Connor’s laugh brought a flush to her cheeks. “Demanding, is
he?” He reached for her free hand and led her to her chair, easing her into it.
“We cannot let the poor child go hungry, especially since there’s so much to
choose from. Padrig has brought us a feast, by the look of it.” He picked up
the wine and poured a measure into a cup, handing it to her. “Do you think he
meant for me to have any of this, or is it all for you?” he asked, casting her
a teasing glance.

Despite the color still heating her face, Moira allowed her gaze
to roam over him as he piled mutton onto a trencher and placed it in front of
her. Her eyes lingered over the breadth of his chest before stopping once she
encountered his. “You’re much larger than I, milord. Perhaps ′tis the
other way around. He’s
your
squire,
after all.”

′Twas not embarrassment that warmed her face now, but
awareness of him. His height alone made her feel small, dainty—she who could
scarce lay claim to such a description, especially now. His muscular build made
her feel safe, despite her many fears, as though no one could harm her or her
child.

As for his manner toward her … When had a man
ever
treated her with such respect as
Lord Connor did? ′Twould be so easy to believe she meant something to him,
had value to him for herself, not for what she could bring him.

′Twas a seduction more tempting than any sins of the flesh.

And it was a dangerous way to think, to feel, dangerous for both
of them. She could not trust herself in the presence of a young, virile man.
Her previous actions told her that well enough.

And embroiling
this
man
within the tangled web of her life could not be safe for him, either, not with
the MacCarthys, the
O’Neills
and Lord only knew what
other Irish families eager to gain possession of Gerald’s Keep through her and
her child.

One man, no matter how strong, could not overcome such odds.

They ate in silence. As Moira drained her cup of wine, she
glanced up and found Lord Connor watching her.

When she would have looked away, he reached for her hand. He drew
in a deep breath and finally, the Virgin be praised, lowered his gaze. “Moira,
what is wrong? Every time we begin to truly talk, when I believe we’ll begin to
know each other, ′tis as though a shutter closes within you, keeping you
from me. I’ve not been here long, and I know that you’ve suffered a grievous
loss, but you must realize that I would never
cause
you harm. Not you or your child.”

“I know.” How could she make him understand her reticence, her
fears, without explaining everything?

Before she could try, he spoke again. “Circumstances have placed
you within my care, milady. As the guardian of this place and all who dwell
within it, I
need
to know everything
that could cause a threat, a danger. Beyond that lies the man who wishes to
know you better, if you will allow it. But his needs cannot hold dominion over
yours.”

How did he know all the right things to say, to make her want to
trust him?

She closed her eyes, turned away. She should not have succumbed
to the temptation to be herself—to
flirt
with him … She shook her head and barely resisted the urge to bury her face
in her hands.

“Moira—“

Her eyes flew open and she spun toward him. “I’ve not given you
leave to call me that.” After a swift glance at his face—handsome, honest,
understanding—she focused instead on the intricate design embroidered about the
neckline of his finely woven green tunic.

“I’ve called you Moira several times, and you’ve not seemed to
mind till now.”

She could feel his gaze upon her, but she refused to glance up,
to meet his eyes. He saw too much, saw her too clearly. “I didn’t notice,” she
said, making her tone cold, indifferent.

He slid his chair nearer to hers, leaned close and caught her
chin in his hand, gently forcing her to look at him. “You didn’t care,” he
said, his voice soft. “Any more than you care now.” His fingers grazed her
cheekbone, sending a shiver of awareness skittering down her spine and
startling her into meeting his eyes. “Do you, Moira?”

“I . .
. ”
She didn’t wish to lie to him.

“I’ve vowed upon my honor to lay down my life for you, Moira.
Allowing me to call you by name—and you calling me by mine—is a small price to
pay, don’t you think?”

This close, she could see the faint flecks of gold in his dark
brown eyes, feel the warmth rising from his skin. His hair fell in soft
chestnut waves to his shoulders, tempting her fingers to reach out to smooth it
away from his brow.

She fought the urge, though her fingertips nigh tingled with
anticipation. So intent was she upon the myriad sensations flooding her, she
didn’t notice he’d moved closer still until his muttered curse broke the spell.
“Forgive me—I cannot resist,” he whispered against her mouth, then pressed his
lips to hers.

Moira sat motionless as Connor brushed his mouth over hers in a
featherlight
caress. He slipped from his chair and knelt in
front of her, sliding his hand into her hair beneath her veil as he continued
to sip lightly at her lips.

Warmth spread from his touch, a healing balm carried in her blood
to all the aching, needy places in her soul. Giving in to the compulsion to
touch him as well, she raised her hand and buried it in his hair. Softer than
she’d imagined, it sifted through her fingers, sending shards of sensation to
stoke the heat she felt to a gentle burning.

She’d been five years wed, had lain with a man not her husband,
yet she’d never known a man’s kiss until now.

Never in her wildest imaginings could she have believed it would
be like this.

Tears filled her eyes as Connor continued to press his mouth to
hers. The feeling building within her rose so swiftly, she feared ′twould
rend her heart in two. “Connor,” she murmured, then gasped when he traced his
rough fingertip over the sensitive flesh beneath her ear.

She slipped her fingers along the neckline of his tunic, making
him gasp. Her lips curved into a smile against his, even as a tear slid free.

He drew back far enough to scan her face, frowning as he raised a
finger to follow the trail of moisture down her cheek to her mouth. “Dearling,
what’s this?” He echoed the path with his lips. “Have I hurt you? What have I
done to make you cry?”

“Nothing,” she whispered. She outlined his jaw with her fingers,
savoring the rasp of his whiskers against her skin. “They are tears of
happiness, Connor, not sorrow.” Cupping her hand over his cheek, she tried to
smile. “Your kisses were a joy I’ve never known. I thank you for them.”
Reluctance making her linger over the task, she eased her hand away and settled
into the chair. “But you must not kiss me again.”

He sat back on his heels, catching hold of her hand and cradling
it within his larger one. “You said you enjoyed what we shared, so you must not
have found it distasteful. I don’t understand … I would not force myself on
you, nor do I believe that I’m every woman’s dream.” His face flushed. “I know
I’m scarred, too big and clumsy, but I swear to you—”

“′Tis no fault in you, Connor,” she told him, his words
making tears fill her eyes once again. “I did not mean for you to think ′twas
something wrong with you.” She tightened her grasp on his hand. “You are not
too big or clumsy—you’ve a strength and grace to catch any woman’s eye. I
watched you as you practiced with your sword, Connor, so do not try to tell me
otherwise. The scar—” she traced its length with her fingertip, holding his
gaze with hers all the while “—it simply adds a mysterious appeal to a handsome
man.” Lowering her hand to her lap, she added, “Lord Rannulf is handsome. You,
my lord, are intriguing.”

He still bore a trace of red on his cheeks, but he seemed more at
ease. “Your flattery makes me wonder all the more why you say you’ll not allow
me to kiss you again. Tis because you’re newly widowed. I should not have . .
. ”
He raked his disheveled hair back from his face and
stood; she felt a sense of loss immediately. “I’ve no wish to make you
uncomfortable.” There was a remoteness in his face, a chill in his eyes that
she’d never intended to cause.

But perhaps ′twas for the best. What kind of woman was she,
to trifle with a man she knew she could not have?

“I told you before that I had something to discuss with you.” He
surprised her by moving his chair close to hers—so close their knees nearly
touched. He sat down and poured wine for her before filling his own cup and
taking a sip. “I wish there was some way I could take away the sting of your
brother’s words, but other than refusing to allow him to come here again, I’m
not sure what else I can do about him. I doubt you wish me to kill him.”

“Nay, do not!” Moira cried. “His words were an embarrassment, but
′tis his way to be so blunt. I may not love my brother as I ought—”

“
He
doesn’t treat
you
as he should,” Connor said flatly.
“You owe him nothing, so far as I can see.”

She barely stopped herself from nodding in agreement. Such
feelings were wrong … How could she be a good and loving mother to her
child, when she harbored so little love for her own family? “Nonetheless, I
don’t wish his death—especially not on your soul.”

Connor met her gaze, searching her eyes, her face, till she
wondered if he could see her every thought, all the stains upon her own soul.
But the earnestness in his eyes never faded, so she had to be mistaken. “I’m
keeping him locked up in the storeroom tonight in the hope he might reveal the
MacCarthys’ plans to me come the morn. After a night spent shut up in the dark,
with naught but vermin to keep him company—”

“He should feel at home with them,” Moira couldn’t resist saying.
“Though the rats will abandon him in no time at all, I have no doubt.”

“You’ve a low opinion of him, but regrettably, ′tis well
deserved, from what I’ve seen,” Connor said. “I don’t know if I can trust him
to carry a message back to Hugh MacCarthy, but I plan to give him something. I
don’t know yet what I’ll say. I hoped that you would help me decide what to
tell them.” He raked his hand through his hair once more and settled his gaze
on her face. “I trust you’re not offended that I locked him up?”

“′Tis more than I expected—and less than he deserves. His
insults were no surprise to me, Connor.” She frowned. “He said what many others
believe, I’m sure. And ′tis similar to Sir Ivor’s opinion.”

“You’re wrong about what people think of you. As for d’Athée, you
won’t have to listen to his ranting for much longer,” he said. “As soon as I
can spare him, he’s leaving for Wales. Whatever happens to him once he’s in my
brother’s keeping is Rannulf s problem, not mine. Rannulf won’t stand for
d’Athée’s
nonsense, and he has more options—and
authority—to deal with that idiot than I have.” Connor swirled the wine in his
cup, staring at the ruby liquid. “One of the advantages of being the elder.”

“Do you mind that Rannulf is the elder?” she asked, then wished
the question unsaid. “I beg your pardon, ′tis none of my business.”

Connor swirled the wine harder, then stopped and glanced up at
her. “I used to mind, but that was long ago. We’ve put the past behind us,” he
said firmly.

Did he try to convince her of that fact, she wondered, or
himself?

“My brother is dear to me, and I begrudge him nothing.” He set
down the mug and leaned toward her. “And I don’t mind that you asked. If you
agree to part of the plan I have in mind, you’ll have the right to ask me
anything you wish.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked away, as though marshaling his thoughts, then took her
hands in his. “Fear not, I won’t kiss you,” he said, no doubt meaning to
reassure her.

She didn’t fear anything he might do; ′twas what she might
do in return, or what could happen to him should he remain near her, that
frightened her. Not knowing how to respond, she nodded.

“The MacCarthys are determined to take your child from you.” He
shook his head. “Enlisting your own brother to their cause is a mark of their
desperation.”

“That may be true, but ′tis also true that my brothers are
easily swayed, when ′tis to their advantage.” She slid her hands free and
stood. “Couldn’t you tell what sort of man Aidan is? I’m sure he’d have joined
forces with Hugh MacCarthy even under different circumstances. The fact that
I’m his kin simply means he’s more apt to benefit from it.” The babe, no doubt
sensing her agitation, chose that moment to beat a hard tattoo beneath her
ribs, robbing her of breath. She grabbed hold of the chair and lowered herself
into it.

Connor half rose from his chair when he saw Moira’s obvious pain,
then sat down when she waved him away. “It cannot be good for the child when
you become upset,” he scolded. Was it his imagination, or did this happen every
time he was near her? Was it his presence or what they were discussing?

Perhaps he should just leave her be, though he knew he could not
do that. “Are you in pain? Should I get Brigit?”

Moira grabbed his hand and placed it atop her belly. The babe
kicked—hard. “It doesn’t hurt, but ′tis not comfortable, either,” she
said, gasping when the child thumped harder still beneath his hand.

“By the saints!” he whispered, knowing he sounded like an
awestruck fool, and not caring a whit. Watching her stomach, he shifted his
palm until he held a sharply protruding limb cradled within it. “He’s right
there, under my hand.”

Moira laid her hand atop his, her lips curved into a smile. Her
beauty at that moment—a perfect moment—stole the breath from his chest and
brought a sheen of moisture to his eyes. He couldn’t have looked away if his
life depended on it.

They formed a connection in that instant—mother, child and
protector—that he knew he could not ignore. ′Twas as though the scheme
he’d hatched, the plan he’d feared to reveal to Moira, had received divine
approval.

“Such a strong lad,” he murmured as the babe settled down to
more gentle
, erratic movement.

“Or lass,” Moira teased. “There’s no way of knowing till the
birth.”

“Whichever it is, it seems a healthy child. Very active.”
Realizing the movements beneath his palm had ceased, he reluctantly eased his
hand away.

The sense of loss was overwhelming. Had he ever felt such a bond
with another? Most likely not since he’d been in the womb himself, sharing it
with his twin. Once he and Rannulf had been born into the cold, harsh world, it
seemed that everything had conspired to drive them apart. Until a short time
ago, the link joining them had been stretched until only the considerable force
of will they shared had kept the bond alive.

“It appears that tonight’s performance is over,” Moira said, her
voice still alight with laughter. Sighing, she sat up straight and sipped her
wine. “It’s time to rest while I can.

“Does this happen every night?”

“Aye—and other times of day, as well. The babe is very lively.”
She reached behind her to press on her lower back, the motion thrusting her
bosom into greater prominence. Connor shifted his attention to her face, lest
he be tempted to stare where he should not. “But in the evening it’s apt to
continue after I’ve sought my bed.”

He couldn’t imagine what it must be like. Until his recent
sojourn at l’Eau Clair with Rannulf and Gillian, he’d not been in close
proximity with a pregnant woman. Even so, all he knew about it was that Gillian
had been greatly relieved when their daughter, Katherine, was born.

Though as he recalled, her delivery of the child had taken a long
time and been fraught with danger.

The thought of Moira in a similar situation—of the danger
involved in bearing a child—caused worry to close about his heart like a fist.
She was strong, he reminded himself. After all she’d endured already, surely
she and the babe would survive.

Moira, sipping her drink, gasped again and began to cough as she
choked on the wine. Connor leaped to his feet and bent over her, thumping her
back carefully until the paroxysm eased. “Better?”

Breathless, she nodded and began to smooth her hands over her
belly.

“The babe is still awake?”

“Aye.”

“When I touched you before, the child seemed to quiet. May I do
it again?” he asked, already reaching out as she nodded her agreement.

She took him by the wrist and laid his hand high on the mound of
her stomach. The bump beneath his palm felt different than before, larger and
less bony. “What do you think I’m feeling this time?” Maintaining the contact,
he lowered himself down to kneel beside her chair.

“I cannot guess,” Moira said, her voice as quiet and solemn as if
they were at Mass. “Sometimes I think I can recognize a hand or foot, but other
times, like now, I’m not sure.” She shifted his hand to follow the baby’s
movement. “Every so often it seems the babe has more arms and legs than it
should.”

“Could there be more than one child?”
That
situation could compound their dilemma mightily, for he could
well imagine the MacCarthy’s response. They’d demand that one child—the boy if
there was one, or the elder son if both were male—go to them, the other to
Moira.

Or, considering what Connor had learned of them, ′twas as
likely they’d demand both of Moira’s children should there be two of them.

“Brigit assures me there’s but one—and that it bears the proper
number of limbs.” She cupped both her hands over his and smiled. “I believe the
babe likes your touch better than mine, milord.” When he raised an eyebrow in
question, she added, “Connor. When you laid your hand over the child, it
settled almost at once.”

“Perhaps the warmth from my hand is greater because I’m bigger.”
Whatever the reason, the thought brought a surprising pleasure. He glanced up
at Moira’s face, gilded by candlelight and at ease once more, and savored the
wave of contentment carrying him in its wake.