Riona (6 page)

Kieran held up his other hand. “I would consider it a favor. Truth, I’d rather face a horde of blade-wielding cutthroats armed with nothing but my teeth than see this matter done.”

Bran looked over at the belongings on Kieran’s pallet. “What about your mother’s ring? Won’t you give it to your bride-to-be?”

Kieran hesitated in the open door, then shook his head. “One battle at a time, my friend. One battle at a time.”

Having rested after their arrival and subsequent request for a private audience with Riona once her duty to prayer was done, Kieran and Bran entered the refectory. The oak plank building with its receding gables and shingled roof of yew was abandoned for the evening vespers. The fires smoking in the kitchen, which adjoined to the dining hall by a covered arbor, held the evening meal for the praying servants of God. The melodic prayers and hymns of the worship filtered throughout the grounds of the stone-enclosed inner rath, weaving in and out of the stone, timber, and wattled structures scattered within, as if to bind them to the bosom of its chapel with praise and song.

A modest portion of porridge and a two-fisted length of bread had been set out at the end of the table for each of them. A bottle of wine—no doubt from the vineyards beyond the abbey—and two wooden cups were provided for their thirst. While not elaborate, the meal was
filling and welcome to bellies empty since high noon.

As Kieran reached for the bread to break it in half, Bran admonished him in a sharp whisper. “Use the knife. We’re not among the heathens now.”

“ ’Tis too little to cut, but too big to swallow whole.” Despite his complaint, Kieran took the blade and did as his more genteel companion suggested.

Without comment, Bran took the first slice and drizzled honey on it from a stone jar.

“I
am
the king,” Kieran reminded him as he took a huge bite.

With a grin as laconic as the jibe, Bran handed the half-eaten piece back.

“Now who’s the heathen?” Kieran brushed it away in disgust. Discarding the knife, he broke his own portion away with his fingers. “The handle’s fit to come off anyway.”

The rest of the meal progressed in silence, as if speaking were irreverent given the holy strains filtering in. The softer voices from the women’s side of the divided place of worship were as distinct as the men’s, yet all blended in ethereal harmony. Kieran could not help but picture Riona—not the muck maid of their earlier meeting, but the vision of their last parting—kneeling in the chapel at Dromin to pray for God’s speed and protection on their journey.

If there were such beings as angels, none had looked more radiant or innocent than she. Her raven hair fell like a silken mantle about her shoulders, as if to worship them. Lashes just as dark fanned upon cheeks rouged by mother nature. And her lips, ripe as cherries, moved over the words of her prayer, mesmerizing Kieran so that tasting them was all he could think of, never mind that they’d dealt him rejection earlier.

“I’m sorry I’ve kept you. I came straightaway from the chapel.”

Kieran started as Riona’s voice pulled him back to the present. He hadn’t heard the door open. Pivoting on the wooden bench, he rose with Bran.

“Now there’s the beautiful cousin of my memory,” Bran said, taking her hand to his lips.

Riona dispensed with etiquette and threw her arms about the bard in a grand hug. “Polished words, all, but I treasure each of them as jewels in my mind. You both look hale from your adventure. It must have agreed with you.” She turned to Kieran. “And you, brother. Is your treasury fat enough now that you can turn your energy to Gleannmara rather than the sword?”

“Gleannmara’s peaceful appeal grows by the day,” Kieran admitted. “I’ve had my fill of adventure. It’s time to think of family and heirs.”

Surprise rendered the lady speechless, but only for a moment. “Well, before I ask whom you fancy to mother your sons, tell me about Heber. He’s angry, isn’t he?”

Kieran shook his head. “Ach, he could never be angry at you.”

“Then why didn’t he come?” Her eyes widened.

What glorious pools of sapphire they were, inviting enough for a man to drown in. “He’s not hurt!”

The material of her wine red dress gathered beneath his fingers as Kieran took her by the shoulders. “No, not hurt.”

The healthy glow he’d just admired seeped from her face. All the words he’d practiced fled his mind, and panic chased them beyond retrieval. Kieran cursed his rattled brain as he mumbled flatly, “Heber’s dead.”

Riona shook her head, refusing to accept what she heard. She looked to her cousin. “Bran?”

“On my life, I’m sorry, Riona. ’Twas done before any of us knew what happened.”

“We were lured into a trap,” Kieran explained, sharing the anguish tearing at Riona’s delicate features. He eased her down on the bench he’d just vacated. “Would God that it was me.”

She stared, not at him, but through him, her face a mirror of conflicting emotions. Putting her hands to her temples, she moaned. He watched, waiting to catch her should she swoon or embrace her if the pain grazing her gaze erupted in an outburst of tears.

“B … but you said he sent his love.”

Her lips trembled with the denial as she lifted her gaze to him. A crystalline droplet broke from the grief welling in her eyes and trickled
down her cheek. Kieran caught it with his finger.

“He did. His spirit had not got away when we found him,” Bran informed her solemnly.

Riona inhaled shakily, bracing her shoulders as if to shrug away Kieran’s comfort, to rely on her own strength. “Then tell me,” she said softly. “Tell me all. Spare me nothing.”

Where should he start? Kieran forced the replay of the battle, but his mind was as fogged as the day had been. He didn’t want to remember. Bran was born to record detail the warrior forgot. Hapless and in desperation, he looked at his friend.

“ ’Twas Colga’s fault,” the bard said, abandoning his usual eloquence. “The O’Cuillin was our rear guard, with Colga as lookout. Our cousin saw the pirates sneaking up on us from behind and ran, leaving Heber to their surprise and mercy. By the time Kieran’s and Aidan’s force regained control of the fray, it was too late to help your brother.”

“Colga said he’d rushed away to fend off another force, an illusion conjured by the enemy’s druid to lead him away from the real approach of the enemy.” Kieran ignored Bran’s snort of disbelief. A man deserved to have his side told, whether or nay it was credible.

“And what of Heber?”

She had the look of a bewildered child hearing but disbelieving an outrageous story. The more Bran and Kieran shared with her of Heber’s death, the less she seemed to hear. Yet neither of them could bring themselves to the details of his last wishes. Bran waited for Kieran, making him feel all the more burdened with shame. He’d face the fiercest of enemies without hesitation, but there were no words to tell Riona how he’d severed her brother’s head and left his body to the carrion. She wouldn’t understand. Hers was too gentle a world.

In truth, the memory still sickened Kieran.

“We buried his remains in Dunadd, among the royal and sainted dead,” Bran finished. “I have commemorated the detail of his story to parchment if you wish to see it.”

Riona held up her hand as if to say, “Later.” For now, she had more than she could cope with.

“Colga.” Riona repeated the name as if she committed it to memory
for the first time. Kieran allowed her to digest it, having nothing else to add. Suddenly the water in her gaze iced, turning on him. “Colga will be the new O’Cuillin.”

“If the clan votes to his favor.” Kieran knew one vote the man would not receive. “Unless Bran will challenge him.”

“I was born to poetic and spiritual pursuits, not war.”

“And God has blessed you for it,” Riona assured her cousin. “Just as He’s cursed our king with the guilt of his foster brother’s death.” She swung her attention to Kieran. “Chasing after adventure and gold!”

Her chin quivered with emotion, and much as Kieran wanted to cup it in his fingers—nay, kiss away her pain—he dared not, lest he come away bitten by the teeth she now bared at him.

“And you asking me to marry
you
less than a season before you left on your folly! For what? Thank God I had the good sense to tell you nay. I’d seen my mother suffer too long married to a steel-worshiping champion. All of you, you thirst for blood.” She sneered, accusing Kieran with a gaze harder and colder than any sword he’d ever wielded. “Well, I hope you drank your fill of it, including Heber’s! I hope you drown in it!”

“Have a heart, Riona; Heber was his brother, too.”

Riona shrugged Bran’s hand from her shoulder and lurched to her feet. Although the crown of her head brushed just below his chin, Kieran felt the singe of her growing anger, for ice had now turned to steam with its rise.

“Would that it was me instead, grá,” Kieran vowed in all earnest. It was not the first time, nor would his conscience make it his last.

“Love?”
Riona slapped him soundly on the cheek, jarring his head to the side with a force that would have done her father, Murtagh, proud. “I am
not
your love. My brother’s blood stains your sword as if it were the blade that spilled his life upon that bog. I warned you not to take up a fight that was not your own. I begged you not to take Heber. A curse on you and your sword … and your horse!” She swore hysterically. “May that kingly torque choke the breath from your black soul.”

She flew at his chest as if to pummel out his heart, and Kieran seized her shoulders, pulling her close, trapping her fists between them.
Deprived of action, her rage and grief escaped in body-wrenching sobs. Kieran envied her that relief as much as he commiserated with her grief. His jaw clenched, trapping his own grief. He rested his chin on the crown of her head, shakily inhaling the sweet fragrance of the soap she’d used upon her hair.

Hours passed, or so it seemed, before Riona’s emotions were spent. Her small frame, drained of strength as well, conformed in soft surrender to his braced one. Awareness of the woman Riona was registered with his male senses, despite the daze of his misery. Would that he could say that the brush of his lips upon the top of her head was offered purely out of the desire to comfort and not sullied by a baser motive.

“I’m best off,” Bran announced to no one in particular. He backed awkwardly toward the door until he finally caught Kieran’s eye.

Kieran blinked in grateful acknowledgment. It wasn’t that he intended to take advantage of the lady and wished to be free of Bran’s company. His motive was of the purest intent, simply to share his grief with the next closest heart to his own besides the late O’Cuillin chief. While he could not separate his feelings as a man for her, he would master them. If the lady would ever have him as a man, let it be of her desire, not her vulnerability.

At the drop of the wooden bar into its keeper, Riona stirred, backing only slightly away from the comfort she derived in Kieran’s strong embrace.

“Bran?”

“Gone,” Kieran whispered.

She exhaled a long, shaky breath and closed her eyes, struggling with its successor. “I still cannot believe it. Tell me this is a horrible dream.”

He wished he could assuage the plea in her voice, but that was impossible … as impossible as finding the right time to tell Riona of Heber’s second request. Now, when her rage and pain was at its ebb, seemed the best alternative.

“Your brother had one last request, Riona,” Kieran said huskily.

She looked up at him.

“That I become your protector and husband. I gave him my word I would see this done.”

The beast of blue fire Kieran had thought spent rallied with a spellbinding resilience before his very eyes. Its breath restored the flesh and bone of Riona’s body so that Kieran instinctively tightened his embrace for his own protection. It grew, filling her until it demanded release.

“How
dare
you!” Arms pinned, her indignation found its mark with a sharp stomp to the top of his foot.

Kieran yowled in surprise and let her go, grabbing at his loudly protesting instep.

“How d-dare you!” Clearly she lacked words to match her brimming emotion. And well Kieran knew with Riona—when words failed, action prevailed.

He hopped back on his uninjured foot in anticipation but was not quick enough. She struck his chest with both fists, sending him sprawling to the floor. His elbow struck one of the benches in his attempt to catch himself, overturning it and sending fire darts up his arm as hot as those flying from his irate companion’s glare.

“I will
never
marry a man I cannot respect, and I do not respect the likes of you or any other warmonger!”

A dainty, slippered foot shot out from the fullness of her dress. Kieran gathered his throbbing elbow to his side to take the blow. “S’bones, woman, ’tis Heber’s wish, not mine!”

He rolled away, his own temper gathering momentum. Seeing her coming after him, he shoved the bench in her way and vaulted to his feet. “And no church would have a wench with a temper worse than God’s own thunder.”

The beast of blue fire roared as Riona seized upon the empty trencher and flung it at Kieran with an aim that would earn the envy of any warrior. What manner of madness made him think Riona of Dromin might be rendered impotent by feminine tears? He dodged Bran’s trencher as well, but the cup that followed struck his ear straight on, emptying the remnant of wine down his neck.

With an explosive oath, Kieran charged as Riona drew back her arm with the second cup. He smacked it off course in midflight and
seized the hand that launched it, wrestling it behind her back. He knocked the bread knife beyond her reach and pinned her at arm’s length, facedown against the table. “I’m not asking you to warm my bed, woman! I’m offering my protection, nothing more.”

“I need no man’s protection,” Riona mumbled against the smooth, worn wood crushing her cheek. “I have God’s.”

“And mine!” came a voice from behind.

Kieran bolted upright as its owner leapt upon his back and not-quite-man-sized fingers went for his eyes. Letting Riona go, Kieran caught the attacker’s wrists and, with a practice twist, flipped the light figure across the table, where he rolled to the other side.