Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight (19 page)

An icy hand gripped his vitals when he became aware he was looking up at a pair of boots on the other edge of the ditch. He felt for the hilt of his sword and stole a glance at his men. Every one had a Norman sword pointed at his throat.

How the hell?

The one-eyed giant to whom the boots belonged put his fisted hands on his hips. “Get out of the ditch, Lorcan.”

“Lord Ronan! I was hoping, that is I am waiting—”

“I know what you are waiting for. Get out of the ditch.”

“It was Fothud’s idea. The torture, I mean.”

“Get out of the ditch.”

Lorcan scrambled out on the opposite side to Ronan.

Ronan chuckled.

Warm piss trickled down Lorcan’s legs. He swallowed hard, watching Ronan’s icy stare turn into a disgusted grimace. “I repent, I repent. You cannot kill me. I confess my sins. I am penitent.”

“Where is the boy?”

“Boy?”

“Moyra’s lad. Tell me now or die where you stand.”

Sweat beaded on Lorcan’s brow. “He’s alive. Don’t you fret about that. In the Little Wood, tied to a tree.”

Ronan folded his arms across his chest. “Draw your weapon, Lorcan, and face me like a man.”

Lorcan’s heart thudded in his throat as he struggled to unsheathe his sword. It seemed to be stuck in the scabbard, but eventually he managed to draw it. Ronan leapt the ditch. Lorcan staggered backwards. His eyes bulged when Ronan drew his sword. To his surprise his enemy lay the enormous weapon on the ground.

Ronan’s next words bit into his bowels. “I won’t need a sword. I intend to kill you with my bare hands.”

Once Rhoni was satisfied Moyra was taken care of, she rushed to the stables and commandeered a horse. The startled stable boy gaped.

“Which way did Lord Ronan go?”

The lad shook his head.

“Lord Ronan,” she insisted.

He pointed and she was off, riding like a madwoman. Dread filled her heart. Ronan was a capable warrior, but he had only one eye. If she lost him now—

As she neared the beach, she saw him. He stalked a man brandishing a sword. But he was unarmed, the weapon Rhodri had given him lying on the sand.

She slid from the horse and crouched, her heart beating too fast. Not wanting Ronan to be distracted, she smoothed her hand over the horse’s nose, as much to calm herself as the animal.

Compelled to watch, despite not wanting to, she gasped when MacFintain swung at Ronan. Ronan ducked and swayed, advancing slowly but surely as Lorcan swung and lunged wildly.

The strength seemed to drain quickly from Lorcan’s arms. His movements were out of control and with one frantic swing he came dangerously close to cutting off his own leg. He sobbed, begging for mercy.

Ronan kept walking towards him, forcing him to the water. “I will show you the same mercy you showed Mary, and the others you murdered. The same mercy you showed me when you poked out my eye.”

Suddenly, Lorcan threw away his sword and staggered into the sea, wailing pitifully. Ronan pursued him, an inexorable shadow.

Soon Lorcan’s arms and legs thrashed wildly as he tried to keep afloat. The waves were up to Ronan’s chest when he stretched out his arms and dove smoothly under the water, disappearing from view.

Rhoni leapt to her feet, startling the horse. Baudoin ran to the water’s edge and she hurried to join him. She gripped his arm, her heart pounding in her ears. “I can’t see him. Where is he?”

Lorcan still thrashed, then suddenly he too disappeared.

Rhoni looked back at the beach. The Normans had rounded up the MacFintains’ men. She returned her gaze to the sea. Surely Ronan should have resurfaced by now, his vengeance complete.

They waited.

Baudoin shook his head. “They’ve been too long beneath the waves.”

Panic surged through Rhoni, but then she remembered. “He’s the son of a seal. He will return from the sea.”

Baudoin eyed her curiously, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Ronan broke the surface, one arm hooked around Lorcan’s neck.

Rhoni breathed a sigh of relief, thankful her trembling legs had kept her upright.

Ronan swam effortlessly to shore, dragging Lorcan behind him. He dumped the coughing and spluttering wretch on the sand as he strode from the water, making sure his eye patch was still in place. Rhoni ran to embrace him, throwing her arms around his neck. He kissed her deeply. She delved her tongue into his mouth, savouring the salty taste, weaving her fingers into his wet hair.

The kiss ended only when the need for air broke them apart. She looked up at his face. The darkness that had haunted him was gone. The stiffness had left his shoulders. “I could not kill him, Rhoni. I wanted to drown him, but I am not a murderer.”

She had believed she could not love him more than she already did, but his words sealed her fate. “I love you, Ronan. I have loved you from the moment I set eyes on you curled up in the coracle.”

He smiled and bent to kiss her again. A shout of warning rent the air, followed by the whoosh of an arrow. Ronan turned quickly to protect her. Lorcan swayed in front of him, a dagger in his hand, an arrow through his eye. He sank dead to the sand.

Ronan looked to the dunes. Conall already had his bow slung on his shoulder and was striding towards them. He came to stand beside Ronan and they looked at Lorcan’s body, the water ebbing and flowing around it.

Ronan put his hand on Conall’s shoulder. “It is fitting that you killed him. Your
da
would be proud.”

“Aye!” Conall murmured.

Rhoni saw little of Ronan over the next sennight. He, Bossuet and Conall were kept busy restoring order to the Tower. A court was convened to render judgment and decide punishment for the crimes of the clansmen who had abetted the MacFintains. Bossuet advised Rhoni and Baudoin it was not a good idea for any of the Normans to attend. Rhoni was relieved.

Whenever she caught a glimpse of Ronan he was very much the Lord of Túr MacLachlainn, a commanding presence, a man to be reckoned with. It was a miracle after what he had endured.

When he noticed her, he nodded politely. She longed to share words of endearment, to touch his face, to ask how he was, but he seemed preoccupied. He had not acknowledged, nor returned her avowal of love. She toyed with the idea of complaining to Baudoin. The old Rhoni would have done so without thinking twice. The new Rhoni would hold her tongue and be patient.

When they gathered in the hall for meals, the men became engrossed in their discussions. It was evident, however, that the people of the Tower rejoiced in their liberation and the return of their rightful lord. Children played, adults smiled and chatted amiably. It was a castle reborn.

They love him.

It was difficult to sit close to him without touching. She was grateful that she was relegated to the end of the table, yet it irked at the same time. Was her opinion worth naught? Had Mary also been expected to sit quietly and say nothing?

But Ronan had confided that Mary wanted to be a nun. Perhaps obedience and conformity sat well on her shoulders? Rhoni shivered. She did not have it in her to be that kind of wife—if Ronan ever asked her! Her parents had encouraged her to be forthright, to contribute her opinions.

She wanted to explore Ronan’s home, but he had not invited her to see anything other than the Hall and her own chamber. Baudoin had been shown other parts of the Tower and there was a great bustle of activity from which she was excluded. Perhaps rushing to Ronan’s aid had been yet another impetuous mistake.

Ronan spent two days in discussions with Bossuet and Conall regarding the future of the Tower. They inspected every chamber but one, planning renovations and restorations. They talked with servants, tenant farmers, serfs, labourers. He drew Conall aside. “I’ve asked Bossuet to stay on as Steward.”

Conall averted his gaze for a moment, chewing his lip. “Has he accepted?”

“He jumped at the chance to leave the uncertain life of a mercenary.”

Conall studied his feet. “’Tis a good choice, though he is a Norman.”

Ronan slapped him on the back. “Good! We want you to be his Second. In time you’ll take over and follow in your father’s footsteps.”

Conall threw himself at his master, his eyes welling with tears. “Thank you, my lord.”

Ronan took him by the shoulders. “Conall, you will make a good Steward. You have proven your worth and I thank you for my life and for Lady Rhoni’s.”

Conall wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I have grown to admire Lady Rhoni.” He winked. “Even if she is a Norman.”

Ronan laughed. “I like her too, Conall. I never thought I would take another wife, after Mary. But it’s time. There is but one more thing to do before I can ask her to wed me. I’ll need your help. Fetch Lord Baudoin. Meet me at my old chamber in an hour.”

Reluctantly, Ronan slowly climbed the steps to the third level of the Tower. He inhaled deeply and pressed his palm against the wood, feeling the grain of the door his grandfather had crafted. He shoved, but hesitated on the threshold, scanning the interior. The bed was the same, the one he had been born in. The tapestries needed cleaning, but they were the ones his grandfather had hung. The cherished oaken chest Mary had brought with her was scuffed, but whole.

He held his breath, grinding his teeth, tempted to close the door and order the room sealed off. But then the MacFintains would have won, and the Tower would never be his completely.

He took a step inside. He smelled Lorcan, heard Mary’s desperate screams, saw the signs of MacFintain’s excesses—empty tankards, soiled linens, mouldy trenchers, mouse droppings, the blackened chimney. Bile rose in his throat. Was it possible to reclaim this chamber? It was a vital part of his heritage. He wanted to bring Rhoni here as his wife, join his body with hers in love, create children to carry on his name.

Clearing out Lorcan’s filth would be the easy part. Getting rid of the ghosts would be more difficult.

He sensed a presence at the doorway. Baudoin hesitated on the threshold, Conall behind him.

He beckoned. “Come in, Baudoin. Conall, leave us. I will summon you in a while.”

Conall nodded and left. Baudoin entered hesitantly.

Ronan gestured expansively. “This was my chamber, before—”

Baudoin looked around, but said nothing.

“Mary died in this room.”

Baudoin picked up a tankard and put it on a table. “And Lorcan has cavorted here ever since.”

Ronan squared his shoulders, nodding grimly. “Aye.”

Baudoin wandered around, examining the tapestries. “What are your intentions with regard to the chamber?”

Ronan cleared his throat. “Since your father is not here, I ask your permission to woo Rhoni.”

Baudoin stared at him, apparently taken aback, then smiled, proffering his hand. “Woo her? My sister is in love with you. It won’t take much wooing.”

Ronan accepted the handclasp. “But I want to bring her here to this bed, the bed I was born in, the bed I shared with Mary, the bed she died in. Will Rhoni understand? Do I understand it myself?”

Baudoin studied the chamber. “If you had asked me the question a few months ago, I would have doubted my sister’s ability to cope with this. But that was before she met you. She’s changed. She will help you make this chamber a place where love rules again.”

Ronan raked both hands through his hair. “I thank you, Baudoin. And I am grateful to your family for everything you have done for me. Your parents would prefer Rhoni wed in England, but, to be frank, I cannot wait. It’s important we marry in Ireland.”

Baudoin walked over to the bed, sat on the end and bounced up and down a few times. “Comfortable. They don’t make beds like they used to! Rhoni is a lucky woman. And you, my friend are a lucky man. My parents sensed you would wed in Ireland. They gave me permission to inform you of her dowry.”

“Dowry?”

“Alensonne. My grandfather’s castle in Normandie.”

“But I thought Montbryce—”

“My other grandfather. The one we never speak of, the irascible and unpredictable Guillaume de Valtesse. It was the brutal treatment of his enemy Giroux that led to the feud that has caused much bloodshed and pain.”

Ronan smiled, stroking his chin. “An Irishman with a castle in Normandie! It surprises me your parents would consider allowing Rhoni to marry an Irishman.”

Baudoin bit his lip. “I’m hoping they will be as broadminded when it’s my turn to wed the woman I love.”

Ronan frowned. “You have someone in mind?”

“She’s Welsh.”

Ronan recalled his time in the Welsh mountains with Rhodri’s family. “Carys?”

Baudoin’s face reddened and he shifted his stance.

Ronan sat beside his future brother-by-marriage. “She’s but a child.”

Baudoin bristled. “I can wait.”

It took a crew of servants five days to clear out the vestiges of Lorcan MacFintain from the chamber. Old linens were burned, tapestries taken down, cleaned and rehung. Wood was polished and fresh rushes laid on the floor. Every stone was scrubbed. The chimney was swept and a fire set. Three cats soon got rid of the mice. New oiled cloth covered the windows. The mattress was mended and restuffed.

Ronan ordered dried lavender be added to the new bolsters.

When the frenzy of activity was complete he surveyed the chamber. It looked and smelled wonderful. Only one thing was missing. He took a deep breath and turned to Conall. “Where is Lady Rhoni?”

Conall winked. “In the Hall.”

Ronan smoothed the front of his doublet. “Wish me luck.”

Conall laughed. “I do indeed, my lord. If you wed Lady Rhoni, there is hope for me and Jacquelle.”

Ronan raised his eyebrows. He had forgotten the Norman maidservant. If Conall was serious, he would try to reunite the pair.

He strode off to the Hall, smoothing back his hair and adjusting his eye patch.

He paused in the entrance to drink in the sight of the woman he loved. His shaft reacted predictably. She was dressed in peasant garb, her hair tied up in a turban, supervising boys crawling in the rafters to dust out cobwebs. He chuckled, surprised she had not climbed up to assist them.

She whirled to face him when he cleared his throat. She fiddled with the turban and her face reddened. He held out his hand. “Come, Lady Rhoni. It’s time to show you my home.”

She inhaled deeply and came to stand before him. He wiped a smudge off her nose and took her hand. “This is the Great Hall,” he jested.

She laughed, intensifying his need.

He led her through the kitchens, now scrubbed clean. They toured the smithy, the chapel, the stores, the larder, the smokehouse, and the chicken coop, carefully avoiding the manure pile. In the stables she lovingly stroked the horses. She missed Fortissima. He resolved to somehow bring her beloved horse to Ireland.

As they made their way back through the herb garden, he crushed lavender between his fingers and held them to her nose.

She touched his hand as she inhaled. “I love lavender.”

“I know,” he rasped.

At the foot of the stone steps to the third level, he paused, put his hands on her waist and drew her to him. Now he knew her scent, he revelled in it, the lavender intoxicating him. “There is but one thing left to see. At the top of these steps. It’s the lord’s chamber.”

Rhoni pursed her lips. “Your chamber. Where Mary—”

He put the pad of his forefinger on her lips and shook his head. He led her up the steps and pushed open the door.

He stood in the doorway, holding her warm hand, his heart in his throat. Was he being disloyal to Mary? His dead wife no longer visited his dreams. Her murder had been avenged. Hopefully she and the babe were at peace now. He had done his best.

But was it fair to Rhoni to ask her to be his bride? He had regained much of his health, but was still a one-eyed man with ignominious scars no nobleman should have to bear. Túr MacLachlainn would rise again, but it would take many years of hard work. Would Rhoni come to love his home as much as he did? Ireland was far from her parents, her family.

And what of this dowry castle in Normandie? How to take care of it for Rhoni and her family when his attention had to be on Ireland?

He gripped her hand and looked at her lovely face. A tear trickled down her cheek. “It’s a beautiful chamber, Ronan.”

He drew her inside. “There is but one thing missing.”

She turned her wide brown eyes to him. “What is it?”

“Love.”

Her mouth fell open. He wanted to lick her full lips and delve his tongue inside. He took hold of both her hands. “I love you, Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce. Will you wed with me?”

Rhoni had never been as happy to hear her full name. On this man’s lips it was a song. She had ached to hear words of love from him, but had become convinced he was a warrior whose bitter experiences had hardened his heart forever.

Would she fulfill his hopes of filling this chamber, this Tower with love? It had been easy to see his pride in every stone during their tour. Would she be equal to the challenges of Túr MacLachlainn?

Could she help him heal, forget the past? Would his people accept her, a Norman? Sord Colmcille was a long way from Ellesmere.

Though these doubts assailed her, she brought his hands to her mouth and brushed her lips against his knuckles. “I will wed with you, Ronan MacLachlainn,” she whispered.

He growled his elation, pulling her to his body, cupping her
derrière
with his big hands. She felt desire surge through him as his hard maleness pressed against her belly. She was marrying a man who had kept his passions controlled while he sought vengeance, but now they were unleashed. She was awash with need.

He tore off her turban and bit her hair. “You always smell so good.”

In her frequent dreams of his proposal of marriage, she had imagined she would be beautifully clothed. “I am a mess. I was helping with the cleaning.”

“You look beautiful to me.”

He nibbled her ear, then her neck.

She giggled. “I’m ticklish.”

He grinned, scooping her up. She wound her arms around his neck as he carried her to his bed. She had longed to feel his body pressed to hers, to learn the secrets of lovemaking from him, but they were not married yet. Would he control his passion?

The bed sat on a raised dais, but he easily raised his knee on to it and they tumbled onto the soft mattress. He laughed when she looked at him with surprise, then he dug his fingers into her ribs. “Ticklish, did you say?”

She squirmed and kicked, laughing with him, tickling him back. This was a side of Ronan she had never seen and it thrilled her. Playful and passionate.