Read Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight Online
Authors: Anna Markland
Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight (12 page)
He chuckled. “Nay, I loved it too.”
Her eyes widened.
He helped her stand, carefully holding the cloak around her. She teetered, aware then that her breeches were around her knees. She put a hand to her forehead, her breath catching in a sob.
“I will hold the cloak, Rhoni, while you see to your breeches.”
Tears streamed down her face as she turned pleading eyes to him, gripping his shoulders. “He didn’t—he didn’t have time—I am still—”
He cupped her face with one hand. “I know, Rhoni. I know.”
She sagged against him. “I owe you my life, Ronan.”
He swallowed hard. “It was thanks to Conall’s quick thinking that I found you. We are both in his debt now.”
He held the cloak around her while she covered her bare bottom, then fastened it tightly around her ruined apparel. As he carried her to Fortissima, he caught sight of her boots in a ditch. “Do you want them?”
She shook her head vehemently.
She remained cradled in his embrace as he mounted Fortissima.
Bitter memories of what had befallen her would remain for a long time, but one image recurred again and again behind Rhoni’s eyes as they made their way back to Duquesne. A one-eyed giant whirled a huge sword above his head, uttering a fierce war cry in a language she did not understand. Her avenging angel, her Ronan.
Duquesne lay in the grip of a fever.
“
Milady
,” he rasped, “
je vous demande pardonne.”
She knelt beside him, gripping the cloak with one hand and taking hold of his with the other. He was cold and clammy. “There is nothing to forgive, Gabriel. How were you to know those men had come so far north?”
His glazed eyes went to Ronan, asking the silent question he could never ask of her.
Ronan put his arm around Rhoni’s shoulder. “She is well, Duquesne. We rescued her in time.”
Visible relief swept over the soldier’s ashen face. “I thank you, Lord Ronan. Now I might hope for some clemency from the Earl.”
Ronan grunted. “That won’t be an issue if we don’t get that arrow out of your leg. Conall has gone in search of a stream. I will try to get the arrowhead out while Lady Rhoni is bathing. I will have to push it through, there’s no help for it.”
Duquesne nodded grimly in understanding. “How many of my men yet live?”
Rhoni glanced around the makeshift encampment where the survivors of the attack had assembled. Bodies lay strewn seemingly everywhere. A vision of Daegal’s severed head flying off his shoulders haunted her. She felt sorry for the MacFintain brothers. When Lord Ronan MacLachlainn’s anger was unleashed, it was an awesome force. “Three are on their feet and appear fit to travel.”
Duquesne groaned. “The Earl may spare me but he will never give me another command.”
Rhoni did not blame Gabriel for what had happened and her heart went out to him. He was a conscientious soldier, a proud man intensely loyal to the Montbryce family. He was probably right that his ambition lay in the dust. His pallor alarmed her. She looked at Ronan. “Is it wise to attempt Ellesmere today? You have yet to draw the arrow from Gabriel’s leg.”
Ronan rubbed his chin. “You are right. We will make camp here. It will give your captain a chance to recover. But I will send the fittest man on to Ellesmere with a message for reinforcements. We are vulnerable here.”
Conall emerged from the trees. “There is a rill, my lady. I can take you.”
Ronan helped her rise and she came to her feet, leaning heavily on him, clutching the cloak around her. “Do you need my help with Gabriel?”
He led her to Fortissima. Her small iron trunk lay at the horse’s feet. “He would prefer you not see his agony.”
She opened the trunk and found a simple gown, a chemise, and shoes suitable for the next day’s ride. She handed the chemise to Ronan. “You may need this for bandages.”
He nodded grimly and accepted the garment. He handed her off to Conall. “How far is this rill?”
“Not far. My lady can call if she needs us. I will come back to help with the captain.”
Rhoni knelt in the wet grass at the edge of the rill and sipped water from her cupped hand. Once she had slaked her thirst, she splashed water on her throbbing face, glad of a chance of solitude. She heard men’s voices from the camp, the moans of the wounded, but she needed to be alone to ponder what had happened.
She fingered the edges of her ruined clothing. It was sobering how close she had come to defilement and death. She had never considered her own mortality, nor recognised the ever present dangers people around her faced. People like Gabriel, her father, her brothers. What a selfish innocent she had been.
She had never carried a weapon, but in future she would. She was confident her father would insist upon it. Daegal and his cronies had robbed her of naiveté. But not all men were the same. She would not allow what had happened to colour her judgement.
Daegal’s rough manhandling had sickened her, yet when Ronan had carefully pulled her bodice together, she had longed for his consoling touch on her breasts. He had too much honour for that, though she suspected he had fought the urge to fondle her.
Could a man desire a woman handled by another man? If she and Ronan lay together, would he think only of what had almost happened with Daegal? Would she? Would the attack haunt them forever?
She let out a long breath, acknowledging that the likelihood of anything coming of her love for Ronan was remote.
A strident shout of pain broke the near silence. Gabriel! Had Ronan managed to remove the arrow? She prayed the young man would survive.
She shivered. Darkness was falling. She had dallied overlong and had yet to get out of her clothes. She unwrapped Ronan’s cloak and peeled the leather bodice from her shoulders, scanning the rill. Further on it entered a ditch. The water looked deeper there, perhaps a good place to immerse her body and wash off the Saxon’s stink.
She removed her clothing, tossing it into a heap, resolved to never touch any of it again. She threw Ronan’s cloak round her shoulders, gripping it tightly to cover her body, savouring the scent of him that clung to it. She dipped a toe in the stream. Shivering at the chill of the water, she waded to the ditch where she took off the cloak and placed it on the bank. Gathering her tangled hair atop her head, she crouched down and sank into the deeper water, gasping for breath, grateful for the cleansing power of this clear, cold stream. The smooth pebbles felt good on her feet.
Holding her hair out of the water with one hand, she scrubbed her body with the other, saying a fervent prayer of thanks as she cleansed her most intimate parts. Her face throbbed where Daegal had struck her. What a sight she would make with a bruised face!
Washing her hair would have to wait for Ellesmere. Lying out in the open with wet hair might do more damage to her health than the near-rape. How good a bath would feel, especially if she shared it with Ronan.
She closed her eyes and cupped one breast, running her thumb over the rigid nipple, humming Ronan’s song. How wanton her thoughts had become since she had met him.
“Rhoni?”
Ronan’s voice startled her. She ducked into the water up to her shoulders. “I am here.”
“May I approach?”
“Aye,” she murmured.
For a moment she was tempted to reveal her nakedness, but her courage failed.
Ronan hesitated. “Forgive me. I was searching through saddlebags for more linens to bind Gabriel’s wound. Some of the shirts are suitable for drying cloths.”
He put the linens down by the stream. “Are you all right?”
Her teeth chattered. “
Oui
, but I am getting cold. Is Gabriel—will he be—?”
“He is a brave man. I had to force the point of the arrow through his leg, but he bore the pain well. He is sleeping. You should come back to the fire.”
It was fully dark now, the forest filling with the sounds of creatures of the night. “I am afraid to return alone. Turn your back. I’ll be but a moment.”
Ronan had come to the rill to wash the blood from his hands and the grim task of tending Duquesne from his mind. Concerned when he did not find Rhoni, he had followed the watercourse to the ditch. His arousal had spiked at the sight of her, posed like a Greek statue at moonrise with her hair atop her head, one hand cupping her breast. He had willed her to rise from the water.
Now, behind him, she stood naked, shivering, drying her body. The glimpse of her breasts straining at the fabric of her ruined shift had confirmed his belief she was beautifully formed. He ached to warm her, comfort her, obliterate the memory of the horror.
“I will need your help with the lacing.”
He turned slowly. She had her back to him, the gown gaping open. Her damp hair hung to her waist like a curtain, revealing only a hint of the whiteness of her skin in the pale moonlight. He gritted his teeth and walked towards her. As he took hold of the laces, she gathered her hair up into a cascading mass on the top of her head, baring her back.
Could she feel the trembling in his hands as he fumbled with the laces? It was impossible to complete the task without his knuckles brushing against her skin. His erection strengthened with every touch. As he pulled the laces, the fabric tightened around her breasts and her waist.
“There,” he declared at last. “Done.”
She whirled to face him, a gleam in her eye. “Your breathing is laboured, Ronan. Was it such a hard task?”
He grunted, though he was glad to see the sparkle return to her eyes. “It has been a while since I laced up a woman’s gown. I’m out of practice.”
He thought with regret of Mary. The grief was still there, but the pain of it was not as intense.
Rhoni averted her eyes. Did she sense he thought of his dead wife?
He put his hand to her bruised face. “Does this hurt?”
She leaned into his hand and put her own atop it. “
Oui
, but your touch soothes it.”
As your touch would soothe my ache!
He bent to retrieve his cloak and furled it around her shoulders, tying it under her chin.
She smiled coyly. “My parents have a tradition.”
Rhoni’s near death experience seemed to have emboldened her. She lifted her arms and opened the cloak. She smiled suggestively. “When my father returns from a journey, be it long or short, he opens his cloak and enfolds my mother in it. Then they kiss.”
Ronan raked his fingers through his hair. His body clamoured to hold her against him. But no good would come of it. He pulled the edges of the cloak together. “Your father would have my guts for garters.”
Gabriel lay by the fire, covered in cloaks taken from his dead soldiers. Sweat poured from his fevered brow. The two soldiers who had suffered only minor wounds watched over him. Three others lay beside Gabriel, one holding a bloodied rag to his face, the second with his arm in a makeshift sling, which she recognised as the bottom of her chemise, the third nursing a bandaged hand. Ronan and Conall had been busy tending these men while she sat submerged in a ditch. They were Ellesmere men, yet he had cared for them.
“Will they live?”
“Aye.”
“Where are the dead?”
He pointed to the edge of the clearing. “Your men are over there. The brigands are in the forest.”
She shuddered. Wolves and other scavengers would make short work of the Saxon bodies.
She walked over to the dead soldiers. Even in the gathering darkness, they were a gory sight. She knew them all. They were honourable young men, most born on Montbryce lands in Normandie, who had guarded her for years. They had died trying to protect her, a girl they probably deemed a frivolous ninny.
Tears welled in her eyes. She resolved to live a better life, to be more considerate of others, to make their sacrifice mean something.
“You must not feel guilty about their deaths.”
She whirled to face Ronan. “I have known these men most of my life. Some of them have wives, children. They died because of me. If I had not insisted on staying in Wales, they would not have been on this road on this terrible day.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her into his arms. “You cannot think that way. Was staying in Wales a bad decision? Are you sorry you did?”
She pressed her face into his chest, inhaling the male smell of him. “
Non
. It was the right decision. I have seen where I was born, and I am happy to have spent time with Rhodri’s family—”
She hesitated. “—and with you.”
He stroked her hair. “Still a little damp. Come to the fire.”
He had put Rhoni as close as he dared to the fire, but she shivered still as he kept watch a few feet away. She was crying, but doing her best not to let him see it. Poor Mary had stifled her sobs and he had not known how to convince her she was a good wife. She had longed for the convent, sure she was damned because she had not followed her vocation. She never blamed Ronan for it, and was grateful for his patience and kindness, yet she seemed unable to stop the silent sobbing.
It would be better if he did not touch Rhoni, but he moved from the log on which he sat to hunker down behind her. He put a hand on her quivering shoulder. She curled up into a tighter ball. “I’m just cold,” she murmured.
He rubbed her arm. “No one blames you for crying, Rhoni. People would worry if you didn’t.”
She turned liquid eyes to him. “I cannot stop. Will you hold me?”
Críost
, how this woman tempted him without knowing the fire she played with. He lay down beside her, his head resting on his bent arm. Careful not to touch her with his body, he put his hand on her hip. To his consternation she turned over and snuggled into him.
Desire churned its way through his body clear down to his toes by way of his loins. “
Dia
, Rhoni.”
This woman was in his blood and his blood was on fire. He had always been a lusty man, and Mary had never completely satisfied his male needs. But he had not wanted her the way he wanted Rhoni. He cupped her bottom and pressed her to his raging arousal. Her eyes flew open. He feared he had reawakened the terrible memory of her assault, but instead of fear, he saw desire in her eyes. She opened her mouth in the most blatant invitation to kiss he had ever seen. It was irresistible.
Still in the throes of shock after her ordeal, she would regret her impulsiveness on the morrow. He had seen grown men, seasoned warriors, reduced to fits of uncontrollable laughter after a battle.
But desire spurred him on. He kissed her hungrily, plunging his tongue into her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her breath, inhaling the tantalising aroma that clung to her even after her ordeal.
This was impossible. On the other side of the fire lay a severely wounded man who might not see the dawn. Others drowsed fitfully beside him. Conall slept but three feet away, though Ronan doubted the boy was asleep.
He broke away from the kiss.
She frowned and pressed her breasts against his chest. “Touch me, Ronan.”
“Nay, Rhoni,
mo stór
, not here. If I touch you I am lost.”
She gazed at him for long moments, then smiled. “But you want to touch me.”
He groaned. “I want to do more than touch you, woman, but I have told you before, I—”
She yawned and put a finger to his lips. “I know, I know. Your vengeance.”
She turned away from him, but snuggled her bottom to his arousal. She reached for his hand and cupped it under her breast. “I am warm now.”
He was on fire.
