The Falcon's Bride (10 page)

“Hold now, m’lord,” said the stabler, a formidable-looking needle in one hand trailing waxed thread, a jug of whiskey in the other. “There’s nothin’ for it, ’tis goin’ ta sting like the devil, but that’ll take the edge off the sewin’ ta come.”

Drumcondra grunted, digging his fingers into the carved whorls and feathers decorating the bench, and gritted his teeth as the stabler poured whiskey into the gaping wound in his thigh. Divested of his leggings for the operation, since the wound was rather high, he wore only his tunic and jerkin. A fresh pair lay carelessly tossed on a chair in the corner, with the boots he’d removed and set aside. Another
splash of whiskey hit the wound, and he cried out in spite of his resolve not to do so.

“Bloody hell!” he roared, snatching the jug. “Better you put it in me than on me, Mossie.” Upending the crock, he drained it nearly dry, then thrust it back at the stabler none too gently. “Well? Have at it, then,” he snapped. The stabler stood slack-jawed, needle suspended.

Mossie jumped to attention, and Drumcondra gritted his teeth against the pain as the needle pierced his flesh. But pain had its advantages. This was the first time he’d been in a flaccid state since he’d met Theodosia Barrington.

Theodosia—a dreadful name that didn’t suit her at all. Now, Thea? Yes, that suited well enough. It brought the image of a regal Greek goddess to mind. The beautiful little spitfire had struck a chord in him that hadn’t been played in some time.

What was he thinking? He had no time for affairs of the heart—least of all with the means of his retribution. That little dalliance was to be something of a different nature entirely. Besides, he had Drina for satisfying those urges. Why hadn’t he earlier, then?

Mossie took a deeper stitch, and Ros sucked in a hasty breath. “Dammit, man! The bastard’s dirk did not go half so deep. Watch what you do! And mind my cods with that pigsticker. I may have need of them again before I die.”

“It ain’t my fault ya got yourself stabbed so close to your privates, m’lord. What was ya thinkin’? You’re usually a mite sharper than that.”

“Yes, well, never you mind. Just stitch me back together and have done. I’ve work ahead of me yet tonight.”

The stabler scoffed. “The most work you’ll do once I’ve put ya ta rights again’ll be between the sheets, m’lord.”

“And that’s exactly the sort of work I had in mind.
Owwwww
! Watch what you do, damn you, man!”

“Oh, aye?” laughed Mossie, ignoring the outburst. “Well, you’ll not be fit for
that
sort o’ work t’night. ’Tis sleep ya need. Ya ain’t invincible, ya know—for all ya make yourself out ta be.”

Mossie McBain was the only soul in Falcon’s Lair who could talk to him thus. The stabler had served his father before him, and he was the closest thing to a surgeon for man or beast to be had for miles. Precious few of Drumcondra’s satellites could claim to have found a soft spot to inhabit in his cold heart. Mossie McBain was one of them.

“There!” the stabler said, biting the thread. “You’re done till the next time.” He slathered some salve on the stitched wound from a pot on the shelf and set about binding the warlord’s rigid thigh with a clean bandage.

Drumcondra shrank from the odor of the ointment. “What is that stuff? It smells of horse!”

“Aye, and so do you—and well it ought. ’Twas a horse that last got the benefit o’it, this ‘stuff.’ He ain’t complainin’ like some two-legged folk I know.”

Ros staggered to his feet, gingerly tugged on his clean leggings and boots, and took a few steps, testing his mettle. That done, he snatched the crock of whiskey and drained it to the dregs.

“Thank you, old friend,” he said at last, wiping the liquor from his lips with the back of his hand. “I needn’t tell you to look sharp. You’ve got the best view of the main approach from these stables. We’re going to have visitors aplenty soon. Isor pecked Cosgrove’s eye out tonight, and he knows I’ve got his lady. The joust goes on between us—this damned civil hatred that lets us meet and taunt and slay each other slowly. The grand game. There are bound to be reprisals. Just keep your eyes peeled.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, but ya should have left her at Si An Bhru. He never would have found her there. He never
would have
gone
there. He’s too afeared o’ it—scared o’ ghosties.”

“I . . . I couldn’t do that,” Ros admitted.

“Why?”

“Because I couldn’t. Branko and Flannan nearly raped her. I cannot trust them. And then there’s Drina. You know what a jealous wench she is. I couldn’t chance it. I shan’t get another opportunity as sweet as this to wreak my vengeance upon the Cosgroves. She doesn’t know where she was. She fancied herself in a cave somewhere. She had no idea that she was inside Si An Bhru all the while. It would have been too easy for her to escape the place if she knew. She’s smarter than that lot.”

“Well then, you’re courtin’ trouble,” said the stabler, thrusting the pot of salve and a wad of linen toward him, “but ya done that since ya could stand without your knees bucklin’, so that ain’t nothin’ new. She’s got to ya, this little Englisher, hasn’t she? Ya can’t fool old Mossie; all the more reason why she shouldn’t be here. Ya need your wits about ya now.”

Drumcondra sighed. “My past is neither here nor there. She’s come, and she’ll never escape from Falcon’s Lair. I won’t lose this stronghold if you keep an eye out. So look sharp!”

It seemed as though Thea had just fallen asleep when strong arms hauled her off the fur pallet and shook her awake. Her eyes had barely focused upon Drumcondra, when he dumped her in the middle of the elevated bed and stared down, arms akimbo.

“Are you simpleminded after all?” he barked. “You cannot lie on the floor. We have rats! Why do you think this fine bed here is raised?”

“M-my lord . . . ?”

He crooked his thumb toward the pile of pelts she’d just vacated. A plump gray rodent was crawling over the fur where moments earlier her body had been. Drumcondra’s bluster alerted his bird, and it swooped down upon the creature in the blink of an eye, its deadly beak and talons making short work of it in a fit of frenzied squeaking and flapping. The bloody onslaught lasted only a moment before Isor squawked in victory. Batting his wings in a triumphant display that sent loose feathers flying, the great bird returned to its perch to devour the rat caught in its clutches.

Thea turned her head away from the sight, burying her face in the eiderdown bolster. The awful crunching and tearing of bones and flesh across the way, and the bird’s guttural squawks of satisfaction as it fed, threatened to make her retch, and she covered her ears to shut out the sound.

The low, throaty rumble of Drumcondra’s laughter joined the noise, and she moaned, burying her head beneath the furs. Her escape was short-lived. The warlord ripped the pelts away. Caught off guard by the sudden motion, Thea cried out in earnest at the sting of the fur, at the rush of cold air, and at the formidable sight of him staring down at her. What was that look in his eyes? She was almost glad she couldn’t read it. It was too intense. All traces of laughter had fled his face, and his glazed eyes were inscrutable. They seemed to glow with an inner light in the soft semidarkness. Skittering over the bedclothes, she put as much distance between herself and the Gypsy as was possible.

The fire had all but died in the hearth, and no candles were lit in the sconces. A fractured shaft of luminescent glow laden with dust motes that the moon threw across the bed was the only light source. That picked out the angles
and planes in his face, accentuating the cleft in his broad chin, and cast his deep-set eyes in shadow. When he strode stiffly around to the opposite side of the bed, she uttered a strangled gasp and skittered away.

He laughed. “You think that childish display will prevent me?” he asked. “Little fool, I am getting in that bed, so you may as well give it over.”

Clutching the bedpost, Thea watched him strip off his tunic. The moonlight gleamed on his broad shoulders and defined his narrow waist. She followed the shadow of dark chest hair that diminished to an arrow-straight ribbon disappearing beneath his leggings, and monitored the pulsating muscles flexing in his corded biceps. She was so mesmerized by the sight, for she’d never seen a man in such a state of undress before, he had hold of her arm before she knew it happened. Without ceremony, he lifted her off the bed with no more effort than he would have employed plucking up a broom straw, and set her on her feet.

Thea gasped as the bird across the way loosed a chorus of harsh clucks. Did the odious creature
laugh?
It certainly sounded that way. Its onyx eyes were flashing, and its head was cocked in her direction. It began clucking again, its head bobbing up and down in rhythm with the sounds. She dosed it with an ireful stare, but it was brief. Dragging her toward the Glastonbury chair alongside the hearth, Drumcondra sank into it and extended his injured leg.

“I must make use of you,” he said, still tethering her arm in a white-knuckled fist.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My boots.”

“Yes?”

“I do not intend to sleep in them.”

“What has that to do with me?” she snapped haughtily.

Without ceremony, he spun her around and thrust his left boot between her legs, hiking her shift up to her knees in the process. “Pull!” he charged, planting his other foot squarely on her behind. “
Gently
, mind,” he warned. “Disturb those stitches, and you’ll sew me up again.”

Thea wiggled the boot, while he pushed with the foot he’d planted against her bottom, and she tumbled forward upon the floor when it gave.

“Now the other,” he directed. “You shall have to be creative here. I cannot push off with my left, lest I stress the wound.”

Thea dosed him with a withering stare.
Creative, is it?
she thought.
I’ll give the great Gypsy lout “creative.”
Bracing her bare feet against the forward crossed leg of the Glastonbury chair he occupied, she tugged with all her might on the heavy wide-top boot until it gave; then she scrambled to her feet and crowned him with it. It was a vicious unexpected blow over the head, delivered with all the strength she could muster. Caught off guard, the attack stunned him long enough for her to make a dash for the door. Tugging the gilded handle with all her might, she cast a backward glance toward Drumcondra, who was trying to rise. It was no use. The door was locked.

“
Isor, hold her
!” he thundered at the tail end of a string of expletives as he struggled to his feet.

Thea screamed as the bird landed on her shoulder, its talons piercing the linen shift. Its wings were beating her about the head, its beak fastened in her hair. In terror, she fell to her knees and covered her eyes, her bent head to the floor in a vain attempt to escape the creature.

“Get it off me!” she shrilled.

Drumcondra reached her in two ragged strides. “Isor, enough!” he bellowed. He extended his arm, and the bird hopped onto the leather gauntlet on his wrist. Hauling
Thea to her feet with his free hand, the warlord jerked her to a standstill. “What? Did you think that piddling blow would be enough to s-subdue
me
? Dream on, f-fair lady.” Giving the bird flight, he steered her to the bed and shoved her down upon it.

He was slurring his words, and Thea pounced upon that. “You are foxed, sir!” she snapped at him. “Thoroughly castaway!”

“ ‘Foxed’ . . . ‘castaway’ . . . ? What strange words are these? I do not know them.”

“In your altitudes, bosky, half-sprung, in your cups—
drunk
, sir! You reek of strong drink.”

Recognition struck. “Ah! Quite possible,” he said. “I tipped the jar before this here,” he explained, slapping his injured thigh and wincing. He fell into the bed beside her. “How else but drunk should a man go under the surgeon’s knife?”

Thea scrambled away from him, but his quick hand clamped around her wrist dragged her back again. “I’m not
that
drunk, my lady,” he said in that seductive baritone voice of his. “It will take more than one piddling crock of whiskey to ‘fox’ me.” His fist relaxed, and he began to slide his hammish hand the length of her arm. “Mmm,” he hummed. “Soft as silk.”

She swatted his hand, attracting the notice of the bird. It clucked, took flight from its shadowy retreat beside the dead hearth, and landed on the elaborately carved headboard of the bed. A quick peck on the top of her head sent her under the fur pelts with a shriek.

“Keep that thing away from me, I said!” she cried. “It bit me!”

A fiendish drunken laugh rumbled up from his throat, and he reached beneath the furs and pulled her hard against him.

“It is not wise to menace me within the bird’s sight,” he agreed, “else you lose some vital portion of your anatomy. He is my creature after all . . . my familiar. You would do well to remember that.”

“
Familiar
is it? Balderdash! It is a vicious predator, and me you have made so! You think that I will just lie here and let you rape me because that bird is perched between us? I’ll see it in the stew pot first! I’ll wring its scrawny neck before I will succumb to rape. Why don’t you just kill me outright? That is what you mean to do in the end, isn’t it? What will that serve? Will it bring your wife and children back? Let me go, Lord Drumcondra! In God’s name, will you please just let me go?”

He raised himself on one elbow, searching her face in the moonlight. “Who said I was going to rape you?” he demanded.

“Y-you did!”

Her posture clenched, she held her breath as his hand cupped her face then slid the length of her throat and came to rest upon the soft swell of her breast. Her heart began to pound. As if it had a will of its own, her nipple hardened against his thumb as he grazed it through the stiff linen fabric. He began strumming the tall protruding bud. Her breath caught as icy-hot waves of pulsating sensation moistened her sex, just as they had done when he had fondled her naked breast while confronting Cian Cosgrove.

“You do not pay attention,” he murmured. “I have no intention of raping you, fair lady. I am no Cosgrove. Ros Drumcondra does not rape his women. He does not have to. What I said was, he ought take care because you are a winsome lass and I am tight against the seam.” He drove her hand down to his sex to prove the point. He was thick and hard, responding to her touch, albeit forced. “I also
said that, just as in days of old, I will have you before him, and that when I’ve done, you will want no other. I call that not rape, my pretty, because before I’ve done you will beg me to put that which you hold in your hand inside you. But . . . not tonight.”