Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight (9 page)

A child of coastal plains, Ronan savoured the primitive beauty of the Welsh mountains. The mist rolled in and out of the valleys of Cadair Berwyn just as it stole over the shore at Sord Colmcille.

He fell into the habit of walking each morning to the edge of the outcropping where he had discovered a quiet place to contemplate the future. He sat cross legged, his mended shinbone aching now only a little. He filled his lungs with the crisp air and felt a measure of peace he had not known for many sennights.

He half closed his good eye and imagined the crag looming out of the mist before him was Túr MacLachlainn. When he sought the Earl’s aid, should he tell of his love for his home, or would the Norman think him maudlin?

Surely a noble warrior would understand the need for vengeance? But what motivation to give the Earl? Why should Ram de Montbryce send soldiers on a risky venture in a land across the sea? They could drown before they reached Ireland.

He had rehearsed what he would say over and over in the six days since Rhoni had agreed to take him to Ellesmere. He was still no closer on this the eve of their departure. Rhoni had more or less avoided him, and though he needed her advice, he did not want her to think he pursued her. Whenever he was in her presence he thought only of carrying her off to his bed.

Even in this place of solitude her perfume lingered in the air.

Conall had lost patience with him and become sullen and moody. The boy had managed to filch a dagger from somewhere, and complained constantly that Ronan had not even procured a sword.

It was a moot point. Rhodri had invited Ronan to train with his men in the afternoons. It felt good to wield a sword again, albeit a borrowed one. His muscles ached after the long period of inactivity while he convalesced, but it was a satisfying ache. He was mending, learning to fight with one eye, preparing.

But he acknowledged it would be a long while before he could undertake an assault on Túr MacLachlainn, even if Montbryce consented to help him. His grandfather had built an impregnable fortress.

He inhaled deeply, closed his eye and rocked from side to side, adrift on the sea. A song from his youth came unbidden to his lips.

Tá cailín álainn a dtug mé grá dí

Sí is-deise’s is-áille ná bláth na rós.

Gan í ar láimh liom is cloíte atá mé.

A cailín álainn, is tú fáth mo bhrón.

He heard a rustling movement behind him. He came to his feet and turned, expecting to see Conall. Rhoni de Montbryce stood before him, one hand gripping the folds of her skirt, the other pressed to her mouth. She looked ready to bolt.

He held out his hand.
“Surely you’re not still afraid of me?”

Rhoni was conflicted. She had followed Ronan to this deserted place each day and watched him from a distance without his knowledge. But this day, the mellow sweetness of his deep voice, singing a plaintive song in his own language, had overtaken her senses and she had inadvertently revealed her presence. His breath, visible in the cool morning air, had carried the haunting words of his song into the stoic mountains around them.

But he thought she feared him?

Mayhap she did. She certainly feared the emotions he stirred and the sensations he caused in private parts of her body she had never paid much attention to before.

She lifted the hem of her skirt slightly and took a hesitant step towards him. “I chanced upon you as you sang. You have a melodious voice. Can you tell me the meaning of the words?”

He took hold of her hand. “Sit with me and I will share with you the lament I was singing. We Irish are a strange breed. Even our love songs are laments.”

She sat beside him on the rock, feeling its chill through the fabric of her skirts. “It was a love song?”

“Aye, it’s called
An
Cailín Álainn,
The Beautiful Girl.”

His heated gaze warmed her and she felt her face redden. He still held her hand. “There is a beautiful girl to whom I’ve given my love.”

Oh God.

“
She’s lovelier and more beautiful than the bloom of the rose.”

Rhoni longed to press her breasts against his arm. She fixed her gaze on his long fingers entwined with hers, remembering the press of his thumb on her palm.

His voice deepened. “Without her in my arms, I am desolate.”

Her heart stopped. It was a lament for his dead wife.

As he spoke the last line his voice was so low she barely heard it. “Oh beautiful girl, you’re the cause of my sorrow.”

She hoped her own voice would not betray her emotions. “You must have loved your wife very much.”

Ronan glanced up at her sharply. Guilt swept over him. He had forgotten Mary, his thoughts on Rhoni as he sang. He let go of her hand and came to his feet, his back to her. If he claimed to have been passionately in love with Mary, it would keep her away. But it would be a lie, and he sensed she would know it.

“My marriage to Mary was arranged by our fathers. She did not want to marry. She had a true vocation to be a nun, but her father forbade it. Mary was the kindest, sweetest woman. She was a good wife, and we got along.”

“Was she beautiful?”

He turned to face her, stunned as always by the golden hair, the wide brown eyes, the proud nose, the utter perfection of the woman before him who seemed to have no idea of her allure. “She had a beautiful smile.”

“Why not refuse to marry her?”

“Nay, that would have shamed her, and driven her father to find a lesser man. It was my duty to protect her.”

And in that he had failed completely. Even now his thoughts dwelled more on this Norman woman than on the mission ahead. He braced his legs and frowned. “I have tried to compose what I will say to your father to convince him to help me, but I doubt my pleas will impress him. I cannot see any reason why he might agree.”

Rhoni gazed beyond him to the distant peaks. “Neither can I,” she whispered sadly.

Unless I beg him on your behalf.

Rhoni kept her eyes fixed on the scenery, but did not see it. The powerful legs of the giant who stood before her on the edge of the precipice captured all her attention. Till now, her father and Rhodri were the tallest men she had known, but she was sure Ronan was taller.

If she pleaded his case to her father, her infatuation would be apparent. Ronan would be embarrassed, championed by a mere girl he cared naught for.

She wished he would stop staring at her. It was unsettling. The cold damp of the rock had seeped through her skirts. Her
derrière
was numb, her feet tingling with pins and needles. She tried to rise. He strode forward and offered his hand, pulling her to her feet. They failed her and she lost her balance, falling against him. He caught her easily and steadied her, his hands on her waist.

Mortified at her clumsiness, she arched her back to look up at his face. His lips were parted, his nostrils flared. Panic seized her. His grip tightened. He bent his knees and lifted her to his warm body. For the first time in her life, she felt a man’s hard desire pressed to her most intimate place.

Her breasts tightened, the nipples screaming to be caressed. To her consternation, her hips thrust forward to press more closely to him. Her feet dangled. She wanted to wrap her legs around him. She had lost control of her own body.

He bent his head and brushed his lips against hers. The savage growl that came from deep in his throat echoed in her breasts as he crushed his hard chest into her softness. His hand wandered up her spine and into her hair. He held his breath, his lips poised to kiss her again.

It suddenly seemed natural to open her mouth and flick her tongue over his lips. He groaned as he captured her tongue in his mouth, sucking hard. She tasted the tart apple he had eaten to break his fast, then his tongue was in her mouth, tasting her, thrusting in and out in a rhythmic movement echoed by their hips. His male scent mingled with the woodland aroma of the soap their Welsh hosts milled with fragrant herbs.

She could scarcely breathe. A maelstrom of confused thoughts swirled in her head, but she recognized clearly her own overwhelming desire for this man, and there was no doubt he wanted her.

He broke off their kiss, and set her feet back on the ground, panting hard. “
Críost
, I want you.”

She should have been elated, but the deep regret in his voice stunned her. What had happened had been caused by male lust, plain and simple. How often she had been reminded by her mother that men lusted for women they did not necessarily love. Her own father had fallen victim to that weakness and her half brother Caedmon had been the result of it.

She pulled away from him, trembling. There were a thousand things she wanted to say, but could articulate none of them.

He raked his hands through his hair. “I apologize, Lady Rhoni. I should not have done that. I am not currying your favour to intercede on my behalf.”

Only ask me and I will. Tell me you love me and I will walk to the ends of the earth for you.

He proffered his arm. “I will accompany you back to the fortress.”

She hoped he could not see the tears welling in her eyes, nor feel the trembling in her hand as she placed it on his arm. It was like holding on to a solid iron bar. How she longed to feel that strength wrapped around her again.

They returned to the safety of the fortress in silence.

At the midday meal, Rhodri received an assurance from Ronan that the Irishman would indeed be taking part in the training sessions that afternoon. “Last chance to learn from experts,” he jested.

He sensed something had happened between Ronan and Rhoni. They seemed more uncomfortable with each other than usual. He was beginning to have doubts they would ever admit their feelings for each other.

He had done his best, it was up to them now. He wondered if Rhoni would spy on the activities in the training field today as she had for several days.

“And what do you have planned for your afternoon, Rhoni?” he asked innocently.

She looked up at him sharply, then averted her eyes. “Packing,” she murmured.

Rhoni eyed the trunk with dismay. Packing and repacking the iron trunk to get it ready for the descent down the mountain on the morrow had consumed a mere half hour.

She decided to wile away an hour in the kitchens of Cadair Berwyn coaxing some of the delicious recipes out of the Welsh cook. She left the wooden fortress to walk across the meadow that separated it from the stone kitchens. To her chagrin, only the cook’s helpers were there, young lads who chopped vegetables and cleaned up. There was nothing to be learned from them.

She set off back across the field, bound for the
neuadd
, intending to breathe in the smell of the wooden beams and watch the banners wafting in the rafters. No one would be there at this time of day.

She had not counted on the bevy of maidservants supervising the laying of fresh rushes on the floors by an army of young men.

Exasperated, she toyed with the idea of walking out to Ronan’s outcropping for a last look at the valley. She touched her fingers to her lips, remembering the passion of his kiss. Better not to go there.

It came to her that she had not yet seen the chamber where her mother and brothers had stayed during their captivity. She recalled what her mother had told her of it, its location, how far it was from the
neuadd
, and in which direction. Surely no one would mind if she explored alone?

Leaving the Great Hall, she retraced the path Mabelle de Montbryce had taken so many times and soon stood before a closed door in an isolated hallway. She knocked, but there was no response. Perhaps this chamber had been abandoned since the kidnapping, though she doubted it. With five children, Rhodri and Rhonwen would probably have use for every chamber available.

She edged open the door and peered inside. This was Rhun and Rhydderch’s chamber. She recognized many of their possessions. But two more pallets had been added to the room. Her heart lurched as the truth of it dawned on her. This is where Ronan and Conall slept.

With a trembling hand she picked up a shirt which lay atop one of the pallets. It was the borrowed shirt Ronan wore. He had stripped it off before going out to the training fields. She held it to her nose and inhaled deeply, savoring the musky male scent that was pure Ronan. If she hurried she might catch a glimpse of him naked to the waist. She hastened off, vowing she would watch him for only a few moments.

It was relatively simple to remain concealed in one of the watchtowers atop the palisades. Rhodri rarely posted guards during the day, confident in the impregnability of his fortress. The afternoon sun had turned the confined space into an oven, but that was not the reason for the sweat that trickled down Rhoni’s spine and between her breasts.

Below her, in the meadow, men practiced swordplay, dagger throwing, wrestling, archery. They grunted, swore, sweated, and laughed. Rhun was teaching Conall how to shoot an arrow at a target.

She had watched Ronan wield a sword in a mock fight with Rhodri. The Welshman had bested him, but Ronan had fought well and it cheered her that he was learning to cope with one eye.

But most of her attention had been fixed on the play of his muscles as he fought, the sinews of his corded arms standing out like ropes. For a big man he was graceful, lithe. Once he honed his skills he would be a deadly opponent. It was hard to believe he had been at death’s door scant sennights ago.

She shivered, despite the heat, a vision of Ronan lying naked with her, entangled together, her legs wrapped around his body, his manhood hard and ready. Her mother had told her what happened between a man and woman, but she had never given it much thought before, never felt the overwhelming urge to join her body to a man’s that consumed her now.

Ronan and Rhodri stood together, encouraging Conall’s progress with the bow. Servants had brought linens to wipe the sweat from their bodies before they entered the bathhouse.

Rhoni chewed her nails, wishing for the magic to shift shape into the drying cloth that had rubbed Ronan’s powerful body and now lay carelessly draped around his neck. She snorted at her foolishness, wiping with the back of her hand the drool that had trickled from her mouth, sure she must be losing her wits. The Irish giant was driving her mad!

Mad with want!

Suddenly, Ronan looked up, directly at the tower. Surely he was too far away to have heard her snort? She slid her back down the rough wood of the wall and stopped breathing. How ridiculous that she, the daughter of a powerful Earl, had been reduced to a quivering mess of trembling desire, hiding in a watchtower. Her parents would be appalled.

If this was what love did to a person, perhaps she was better off without it?

The men’s voices tapered off as they made their way into the bathhouse. Soon, however, ribald noises of horseplay and male laughter assailed her ears. She made her escape down the wooden ladder, holding tightly to the sides, fearing her knees might buckle at any moment.