The Falcon's Bride (22 page)

“You forget,” said Drumcondra, “that keep was once mine. There is a fortune in gold hidden there—Gypsy gold that I will be able to convert to your currency. Ill-gotten, I admit, but who here now is to question its origin?”

James stared. “Surely someone has discovered it by now,” he said. “After all these years, it’s hardly to be expected that it still remains.”

“If no one knows it exists, the odds are in my favor, Barrington. Cian Cosgrove was unaware of it. No one knew—not
even my wife, and unless the current residents are ghouls and grave robbers, it is safe to assume that it has stayed where it was laid.”

“And now belongs to the current owner,” James said, his tone flat.

“It belongs to
me
,” Drumcondra seethed, thumping his chest, “The legacy of my father. With it, I will be able to keep your sister in grander style than your Cosgroves ever could.”

James shook his head. “I want no part of this,” he said. “I shan’t become accomplice to robbery.”

Drumcondra smiled the smile that did not reach his eyes. “Ahhh, but you will be part of the result,” he said.

“And how is that, pray?”

“I mean to have Falcon’s Lair back,” said Drumcondra. “You said yourself that the owner is anxious to get shot of it. It goes against my grain to have to purchase my own land—to pay for what is rightfully mine—but purchase it I will if that is the only way to have it back.”

“That slag heap?” James blurted. “You mean to house my sister in that crumbling pile of rubble? You, sir, have attics to let.”

“That is where you enter into it,” Drumcondra responded. “You are an architect. I will pay you well to see it is made livable.”

James’s jaw fell slack. “Now I know you’re mad,” he said. “The entire structure would have to be leveled clear to the foundations. Construction crews would have to be engaged—stone masons, roofers, landscapers and the like. Why, it would take a fortune. . . .”

“Which I will supply, once I retrieve it,” the warrior concluded. “I cannot do that from here.”

James began to pace dramatically. “So, let me see now if I have this correct,” he said. “You mean to gain entrance
to Cashel Cosgrove under false pretenses in order to relieve them of gold that is legally theirs, being the owners of the place. Furthermore, you intend to use this now twice ill-gotten fortune to purchase a worthless wreck of a manor, which you somehow seem to expect me to resurrect for you. Have I got it with any degree of accuracy, my lord?”

“James, how is it that you always must dissect everything put before you?” Thea asked. “You are practical to a fare-thee-well, and logical to a fault. I pity
your
intended. You haven’t an ounce of romance in your soul, and even less vision.”

“Hah!” her brother erupted. “Someone must exhibit logic here. Left to you, we—all three—are destined for incarceration in a lunatic’s house!”

Drumcondra shrugged. “What say you, Barrington, are you game?”

“Even if I were, you cannot show yourself like . . . like
that
.”

“Are there no longer shops in the area? There used to be a clothier in Oldbridge.”

“I suppose . . .”

“The coin in my pouch will likely not suffice, but I will make it right by you when I have my gold.”

“Yes, well, I expect there’s naught to be done but go along with this madness. I leave for Oldbridge at first light.” James took the warrior’s measure, sliding his gaze the length of him. “We shall be fortunate indeed to find anything that remotely comes close to your stature, my lord. You never would manage it at home, by God! Count yourself fortunate that the Irish are more strongly made.”

“I am in your debt, sir.”

“Oh, yes!” James warbled. “And I will collect, make no mistake.”

Thea embraced her brother. “Thank you, James,” she murmured.

“Do not thank me yet,” he replied. “Thus far, I’m only committed to making him presentable, nothing more.”

Thea turned; and was suddenly afraid. Something unequivocal in Drumcondra’s eyes sent soul-shattering chills racing along her spine. Whatever his thoughts were, they were his own. He would not share them. Whatever plan he was hatching had taken possession of him, and she was almost glad she couldn’t read those thoughts. He was a Gypsy warrior after all, and she was seeing that facet of him for the first time. It was terrifying. But why now, when what they had just lived through had been a far greater threat? She couldn’t explain it unless to call it premonition, but the specter of something that tasted of death was there in that chamber with them, as palpable a presence as any.

“W-why does it have to be Falcon’s Lair?” she asked, drawing Drumcondra’s eyes. They were hooded and glazed with a different kind of passion. It made her blood run cold. “If, as you say, you have a fortune in gold, why can you not build a keep elsewhere . . . start anew, where there are no sad memories to remind you of the devastation that occurred there?”

Drumcondra gave a start. The look in his eyes was incredulous. “Because of the corridor,” he said—as though she should have known.

“You are trembling,” Drumcondra whispered in Thea’s ear as they lay together wrapped in the fur rugs. They were alone. James had disappeared into one of the side chambers to spend the night. Despite the warmth radiating from the brazier, Thea couldn’t control her shuddering. It had nothing to do with the temperature.

“James is right,” she said. “It is a mad plan.”

“You must trust me,” he replied, soothing her in his strong arms.

Thea said no more. What really haunted her then was the reference he’d made to the corridor. No longer worried that he wouldn’t believe her, she now feared he hadn’t severed ties with his own time. If he were ever to leave her and return to the past now, after . . . No, she wouldn’t think of that, not with his dynamic body so close, so aroused in her arms. She wouldn’t think about it at all if she could help it. Resurrecting Falcon’s Lair was not the answer. Why, even without the obvious, to live with him so close to Cashel Cosgrove and Nigel? Madness! Somehow she would convince him of that—but not now. That coil would have to wait to be unwound. This was not the moment.

With only the glow issuing from the brazier and one feeble candle plastered to the floor with tallow for light, Thea couldn’t see him clearly, though she felt the strength in him—in the rock-hard biceps, in the likewise corded thigh leaning against her. His skin was hot and dry, evidence of fever. Another would have succumbed by now, she thought. What was this man made of, this enigmatic Gypsy warlord?

His rough-textured fingers aroused her, stroking her face, her throat and shoulder. She moved against him, a soft moan escaping. The throbbing had begun inside—that wonderful, terrible pulse-beat that set fire to her sex. It was scandalous to feel such sensations, to indulge in such forbidden pleasures. But there was no impropriety here. They were joined in marriage after all. Could it be the bizarre circumstances of their vows that made the intimacies they shared seem shocking? Or was it that she’d found herself taking unabashed pleasure in things others of her sex only endured as a duty that must be borne?

They were perfectly matched; but then, she had believed that from the first moment she set eyes upon him in his ghostly form, lurking in the shadows of her bedchamber at Cashel Cosgrove. What had begun as a fantasy, an air dream, had become a reality so unreal in nature it utterly defied all reason. And yet, it was the most natural phenomenon she had ever imagined.

Her response to his advances proved the point. The heat of his hand through the thin silk shift set her heart racing. The silken feel of his skilled tongue as it entered her mouth, sliding between her teeth, conjoining with her own, wrenched a husky moan from her dry throat. That triggered a response, and her arms gathered him closer still as if they had minds of their own.

As he moved to spread her legs, the fur rug fell away exposing his broad shoulder span to the brazier’s golden glow, burnishing his bronzed skin, casting their tall auburn shadows that seemed separate entities on the chamber walls.

“There is no more pain?” his husky voice murmured in her ear.

“No, none, my lord,” she said.

The breath leaked from him on a long resonant moan as he entered her, his thick sex filling her so full she feared she’d burst. Every sighing whisper of air seemed to have left his lungs. His heartbeat was the only sound, pounding, thudding in her ears, the shuddering vibrations hammering against her breasts buried in the soft ebony thatch spread over his chest.

If he had driven himself hard inside her then, hammered himself against her, she would have exploded, but he did not. His sex swelled deeper. No other part of him moved, only that stretching, throbbing thickness reaching depths she did not know existed. Her breath caught. Her body arched. His had frozen in place.

The tantalizing ecstasy seemed to go on forever. Just when she thought she could bear no more, he raised her hips and took himself deeper, moving now—strong, shuddering thrusts that ignited her like firebrands; undulating plunges gaining momentum until the heaving propulsions exploded inside her, pumping himself dry, filling her with the warm rushing flood of his seed.

Afterward, he did not withdraw but gathered her close, his hot brow upon her shoulder, his breath puffing out a rhythm against her moist skin. She had not yet come back into herself from wherever his dynamic body always seemed to take her. It was as if she were above herself looking down, watching that bronzed body roped with muscle as it coupled with hers. In the magic of that moment, she almost didn’t see the candle flicker, or feel the cold breath of wind that extinguished it. It wasn’t until the acrid odor of the burnt wick trailing smoke reached her nostrils that she knew it had gone out. Cold chills riddled her spine despite the warm arms pressing her close. Was it an omen? She wouldn’t credit it. Instead, she crowded those thoughts out with remnants of the ecstasy of his embrace still palpitating through her.

Drumcondra didn’t seem to notice the sudden darkness that enveloped them, since the fire in the brazier was dwindling also. His soft moan filled the chamber, and at the end of it, almost without breathing, he said, “You are mine. Nothing in heaven or hell can part us.” He found her lips with his own, hot and dry, gathered her to him, and took her again and again.

Chapter Seventeen

They left Newgrange as twilight tinted the snow mounds blue, the falcon soaring overhead, his regal wingspread silhouetted against the full moon. Thea and Drumcondra, mounted upon Cabochon, followed James’s lead on the Andalusian as they rode north-northwest through the drifts toward Cashel Cosgrove.

The buckskins, waistcoat, frock coat, and caped mantle James brought back from Oldbridge, while not being bang up to the mark when it came to London fashions, were almost a proper fit. Purchasing suitable ready-made boots for a man of the Gypsy’s stature, however, was quite another matter. Nothing could be found that would fit. His old ones would have to do. A straight razor dealt with his dark growth of stubble, but he dug in his heels when it approached his hair. No amount of persuasion would convince him to part with his glossy black shoulder-length locks, and in the end Thea tamed them in an acceptable, albeit outdated queue.

It was decided that they would pass him off as wayfaring gentry from the north in hopes it would explain his olive coloring. It was also decided that they not stray too far from the truth, and a story emerged from their collaborative efforts in which James had come upon them returning on his way to fetch the guards. It would be said that Drumcondra rescued Thea from a pair of thieves with intent to hold her for ransom, who had been lurking about Newgrange. They had taken her with them on their current raid. Then, when the storm came they were forced to take shelter, and were waiting it out in a ruined keep west of Drogheda, where Drumcondra, who would be called Mr. Drummond, fortuitously took refuge from the storm himself. A skirmish ensued, and the thieves scattered. This would explain his leg wound, and hopefully earn him an invitation to recuperate at the keep and a visit from Dr. McBain. Even Thea agreed it was a brilliant plan. Now all that remained was to implement it.

They reached Cashel Cosgrove at full dark. The bird immediately soared off to alight atop the battlements in a clucking, flapping exhibition of blatant disrespect and defiance. The brazen display brought the closest thing resembling a smile to Drumcondra’s lips that had crossed them since the odyssey began.

He ground out a guttural chuckle. “If I know Isor, he has left his calling card aloft,” he said as they approached the courtyard. “In the old days, if a sentry were patrolling there, he would be duly decorated by now.”

Thea took a sudden chill, recalling the last time she rode upon Cabochon in Drumcondra’s arms approaching that castle. She relived that cold barefoot ride, when, naked beneath the sumptuous chinchilla fur pelerine, her hands bound, she clung to him as they rode through the sugary-frosted twilight. A pulse stirred in her sex recalling
the bulk of his arousal forced against her thigh, recalling the touch of his hand upon her breast, the cold breath of the Meath night air ghosting across her naked skin, and the arousal those skilled fingers hardening her nipple had caused. The memory was so jarring she shuddered, and he pulled her close, soothing her gently. Did he remember, too? He must have. The smile had dissolved on his lips, and his eyes were inscrutable.

“Bear up now, little sister,” James said, obviously having misread her expression. Hot blood rushed to her cheeks. Her brother knew nothing of that episode, but she didn’t need a mirror to tell her she was blushing just the same. A smile that did twinkle in his eyes creased Drumcondra’s lips, observing what she was certain had to be her cheeks aflame, but he made no remark as they reined in before the portal and climbed down onto the circular drive.

Regis the butler staggered back from the doorway when they crossed the threshold. James had custody of Thea now. They were taken to the drawing room, and Nigel, the countess, and Viscount Nathaniel Barrington were summoned there. They did not speak while they waited. That too was arranged beforehand. Once they entered the castle, the game had begun.