Lord of the Isle (4 page)

Hugh did not urge her to quiet. A woman’s tears after an ordeal were a good thing. He embraced her gently, waiting for the calm that would come soon enough.

“Tell me,” Hugh asked as he sat her up, mindful that she had injuries other than the ones he could see in the limited light. “Do you think you can stand or ride?”

“Possibly.” Morgana used her left hand to touch the back of her neck. She encountered mud, matted hair and excruciating pain. This wasn’t the time to start cataloging her injuries. She nodded in the direction of Kelly’s trussed body, easily distinguished from the others because of his silver-gray hair. “Is Kelly dead?”

“Not yet,” Hugh murmured. “By your question, I take it you are acquainted with him.”

“Enough to wish I wasn’t,” Morgana replied tartly. She busied her hands, making order of her clothing, and what she couldn’t order she wrapped securely under the sodden tartan to cover the gaps.

The curious boy kneeling at Hugh O’Neill’s side took off his own belt and offered it to her as a means to hold the plaid secure.

“That was kind of you, Owen. Now go and fetch my horse,” Hugh said, dismissing the boy.

“At once!” Owen popped to his feet, bowing deeply. Hugh thought the show of respect attributable more to the English lady’s breasts than to any sign of hero worship honoring Hugh.

“May I have my knife back?” Morgana asked as she fastened the belt buckle at her waist.

Hugh swung his eyes from the departing boy, back to the woman. Her intense gaze was leveled, pointed at his waist, where her blade rested in the same sheath as his dirk.

“Until I know you better, Morgana of Kildare, I think the blade had best rest where it is. I applaud your skill with it. One man of six dispatched to his Maker, three others wounded. My gut tells me that you are a dangerous woman.”

“A desperate woman, sir.” She challenged him without compunction, proving that she was no stranger to speaking
her mind. “I would feel far safer if the blade rested in my own sheath.”

Hugh leaned over her, deliberately sliding his hand under her skirt to find the deadly dagger’s sheath, neatly buckled below her left knee. She was an Englishwoman from the Pale, and not to be trusted. His eyes met hers. “You will be safe in my care without it.”

The rhythm of Morgana’s heart arrested. Her breath caught in her throat. The flesh on the inside of her thighs quivered. The touch of his hand was intimate and warm. The implication of that sheath at her knee might have gone unsaid, but his proprietary attitude needed no more vouching for. She knew exactly what he was telling her—he was the one in control, not she.

Trying to take control of matters between them, Morgana grasped his wrist and removed his hand.

“I find, sir, my personal security never rests well in anyone’s hands but my own. I repeat, give me back my knife.”

“Not now, Morgana of Kildare. Not before we know who you are and what you are doing in Tyrone. Come, I will help you to stand.”

As Hugh assisted the woman back onto her feet, Kermit Blackbeard turned the contents of a filled water skin out on James Kelly’s head and chest. The moment the traitor roused from his stupor, Kermit kicked hard toes into Kelly’s ribs.

Kelly awoke spitting and cursing, shouting against the bonds restraining him. “God damn you, I’ll have your head for striking me!”

He sat up, blinking his eyes, and glared at the man assisting Morgana to her feet. “Untie me, O’Neill!”

“O’Neill!” Morgana gasped. She jerked against the young man whose kind arm gave her the support she needed to remain on her feet. “You’re
the O’Neill?”

“Aye, lady, so he is,” Kermit Blackbeard assured her. He dug his fist into Kelly’s collar and hauled him onto his feet.

“Those are their words, not mine, lady,” Hugh crooned softly into the woman’s ear, to calm her.

“On your feet, man!” Shamus Fitz dug his heels into his mount’s ribs, putting hard tension on the rope tied between his saddle and Kelly’s fat neck. Kelly struggled, choking, his wild eyes searching for Hugh.

“O’Neill! Tell your men to desist! O’Neill!”

Morgana of Kildare reacted. Her hand shot out to snatch her blade from the sheath at the O’Neill’s waist. He stayed her hand, gripping her fingers firmly, adding a command to desist. “Nay, lady. This is my land, and he’s my prisoner, now. Unless you want to join Kelly in the ranks of the unwelcome, obey me.”

“Damn you, O’Neill, tell these bastards to untie me!” Kelly shouted hoarsely. “You can’t hold me! I’m an officer in the queen’s army!”

Owen Roe returned Boru and stood fast, holding the charger’s bridle by the bit, awaiting Hugh’s next order. Hugh nodded to Kermit and Shamus Fitz. “Take him to Fort Tullaghoge. He’ll be tried one week hence. Guard him well, Shamus Fitz.”

“On what charges?” Kelly raged, loud enough to wake the dead as far away as Tara. “Nothing I did to that woman matters. She’s my prisoner. I’ve a warrant to take her back to Dublin.”

Morgana instantly refuted that charge. “That’s a lie!”

It was a good thing that Hugh’s hands were put to use staying Morgana of Kildare’s vengeful fingers, else this time he’d certainly have broken Kelly’s jaw. “Take him out of my sight.”

“Wait!” Kelly shouted again, struggling against the ropes that bound him. “I demand to know why you are doing this, O’Neill. I can bloody well have your head.”

“On the contrary, Kelly. It is clan O’Neill that will have your head.”

“I’m not under your benefice.”

“Are you not James Kelly, born at Tullaghoge in county Tyrone, bastard of Margaret Mary Kelly, scullery maid at Fort Tullaghoge lo these many years?”

“Aye, and well you know my father is Lord Litton. You can’t lay a hand on me, O’Neill. You haven’t a charge against me that will hold in any court in England.”

Hugh carefully lifted the woman onto Boru’s saddle, then mounted the steed behind her. He nodded to Owen Roe, and the boy handed him the reins. “Get you to your father’s horse, Owen, and return to Dungannon with him.”

Hugh turned Boru to face James Kelly. His dark eyes pierced the bully’s soul.

“This is Ulster, Kelly. You have forgotten that you are a son born to the land of Tyrone, subject of the late Conn the Lame, Shane the Proud after him, and now my uncle, Matthew, by whose authority I arrest you.

“As for my having to lay my hand upon you, I will not stoop so low as to touch you again. It is the judgment of Tir-Owen and Tir-Connail that you will face, at the next gathering. Witnesses will be called to testify against you, many who claim you murdered Shane O’Neill.”

“That’s a lie! I dare any Celtic bastard to face me and swear against me. I’ll have their bloody head if they do! I’m the law in this land now, O’Neill. Not you.”

“Oh?” Hugh O’Neill’s voice was deadly cold. “Then we shall play this game your way, Captain Kelly. By my own authority as Her Majesty the queen of England’s earl of Tyrone, I, too, am invested with the power of pit and gallows over all criminals who enter Ulster under false pretenses. In Her Majesty’s name, I arrest you and bind you over for trial in the nearest docket.”

Suddenly this argument between the two powerful men cut through Morgana’s shock at finding herself face-to-face with
the O’Neill.
She stared at Kelly, tasting revenge on her tongue, and through him found the means to ensure that the O’Neill would aid and protect her.

“He can’t have my head or intimidate me,” Morgana said. “Under both brehon and English law, I can testify against him. He confessed to the murder of Shane O’Neill, boasting to me that it was none other than he who took Shane the Proud’s head to Dublin and sold it. You’ve got your murderer, O’Neill.”

“You lying bitch!” Kelly lunged forward, only to be drawn up taut against the ropes restraining him. “A cage outside Dublin Castle is too good for you. I’ll transport you to England. You’ll be hanged, drawn and quartered, the same as all the cursed Fitzgeralds! O’Neill, listen to me. That woman is Morgan Fitzgerald, protege of Grace O’Malley, both wanted in London for piracy and high treason!”

As if he hadn’t been interrupted by either of them, Hugh continued, finishing his words. “And did you not want to be charged for the murder of Shane O’Neill, Kelly, you should have remained in England and never return again to Ireland. Take him from my sight.”

The last five words spoken by the O’Neill were the only ones Shamus Fitz was listening to hear. He dug his heels into his horse’s ribs, and the rope to James Kelly’s throat stretched as his mount galloped to the bridge.

“Run or be dragged, Kelly!” Kermit Blackbeard hastened the traitor on his march by whalloping Kelly’s arse with the flat side of his sword.

Morgana sat stiffly on the charger, glaring after the departing men dragging their prisoner into the deep waters coursing over the flooded bridge. The rain beat down on her head, striking her face and stinging her eyes, making her squint to see into the dark night.

She wanted the satisfaction of watching Kelly drown, nearly as much as she wanted the satisfaction of killing him herself.

Hugh O’Neill waited in silence until Loghran and Donald the Fair joined him for the short ride to Castle O’Neill. He put no questions to the woman, though many came to
mind. The hour was late and the woman exhausted. Her identity and status could be determined at another time.

Loghran and Donald rode at Hugh’s sides, which proved to be a good thing on the crossing. The Abhainn Mor had not calmed. Violent water surged high up Boru’s tall legs, lapping over the war-horse’s withers in the deepest portion of the flood. Hugh had all he could do to keep a firm hold on Morgana, whom he’d foolishly seated sidesaddle.

Where she had been fearless and indomitable in facing a band of rapists, the flood turned her into a terrified, shrieking female.

The very moment rough water came near her boots, she panicked, trying to kneel and then stand on Boru’s back. She’d have climbed Hugh’s back and toppled them both into the flood, had Hugh allowed such foolish action. It literally took all his strength to contain the frantic woman.

He thanked God he had Loghran and Donald making certain all three horses crossed without mishap. Otherwise, Hugh was positive both he and the woman would have been swept to their deaths in the floodwaters.

On the Tyrone bank, death still seemed imminent, judging by the choke hold Morgana had on Hugh’s neck. They were both soaked to the skin from the crossing. Hugh halted Boru on the high bank, to let his horse rest and to get the woman better seated for the journey home.

“It’s all right, Morgana, you’re not going to drown.” Hugh tugged her arms apart, loosening their death grip around his neck. Her legs, too, wrapped shamelessly around his waist. Their clothing mingled in a tangle of bared knees and lower limbs. “You can let go now. We’ve crossed the river.”

Loghran grunted a Gaelic comment pertaining to the indecency of the woman’s position, then galloped up the cliff, leaving Hugh to deal with woman on his own. Donald the Fair politely offered to wait at the bridge for Macmurrough.

Morgana swallowed hard several times, gulping down her fear, before she was able to speak. The river was behind her. No point would be served by voicing her deep-seated fear of water now. She managed to loosen her grip on Hugh O’Neill. She could exert no control over her shaking.

Hugh rather missed the tight bindings, once she’d righted herself on the saddle and sat astride before him. Again, she fussed with cloth—pulling down wet skirts, tugging hanging sleeves and covering tartan into modest disorder.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Hugh cleared his throat, preferring not to remark upon the strength and power he’d sensed in her legs when they wrapped around his waist so intimately. He, too, gave his hands to the work of replacing her fallen clothing. For a moment or two, the river’s wild current had threatened to strip her naked. “Remind me not to attempt riding tandem with you over another body of water.”

Morgana ran a wet hand over her face. “This is most unseemly. Look you there. My horse is tied to that tree. You’ve been most kind. I can continue on my own from here.”

“Continue?” Hugh murmured in her ear as he tucked the salvage of his plaid over her shoulders. She shook so violently, her body felt as though it were convulsing. “Nay, Morgana of Kildare. A man of mine is coming with the soldiers’ horses. He and Donald will bring your animal to Dungannon’s stable. You are in no condition to ride unassisted.”

“I say that I am,” Morgana insisted. Dungannon was a stronghold of clan O’Neill. She had no interest in winding up there. If the truth were to be spoken, she had hired a guide to make certain she traveled north without passing within a league of Dungannon. James Kelly was a minor nuisance compared to the troubles she could expect from those who resided at Dungannon.

Morgana began again, guarding words, as well as tone. She didn’t want to alert any suspicion, but was doubly convinced
that they must part ways. “I must be on my way to Dunluce….”

“Save your breath. I’m not listening. We ride to Dungannon as we are.”

Hugh cut off what he sensed would be towering argument. He’d learned young not to expend his breath arguing with women. Instead, he turned Boru to the path leading up the cliff and into Tyrone. She struggled some, protesting the leaving of her horse behind.

“This is outrageous,” Morgana declared. “First I am attacked at the inn at Benburg, then nearly killed at the bridge over the Blackwater. Now my rescuer abducts me against my will! Some knight in shining armor you pretend to be, Hugh O’Neill.”

Instead of correcting her, Hugh turned as silent as Conn the Lame’s marble effigy. Fifteen years under the rule of the most strident woman alive had taught him to keep his tongue behind his teeth and measure his words before voicing his opinions.

“You’re cold and miserable.” Hugh’s arms slid around her waist, drawing her back against his chest. “Whist now. We’ll be at Dungannon anon. My men will not rape you when we get there. You’re safe, Morgana of Kildare.”

“And that’s supposed to reassure me?” she asked waspishly, keeping a secure hold on his powerful wrist, where his hand pressed so firmly against her bare belly through wet and torn cloth. “Who is to protect me from you?”