The Falcon's Bride (28 page)

Cosgrove cast daggers at her with his cold eyes, and then, without a backward glance, he crashed through the door and slammed it shut with force enough to set it off its hinges. Thea held her breath until she heard the key turn in the lock, and it wasn’t until she heard his angry footfalls recede along the corridor that she flung herself across the bed and sobbed herself to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-two

If things went well, Thea would have at least a sennight’s reprieve before Cian Cosgrove made any attempt to bed her, but that did not exempt her from his presence. Though he would not let her out, he haunted her chamber, brought her food—even lit the fire in her hearth, and had a bathing tub delivered to the cell from one of the other chambers. It was set before the hearth. A kettle filled with water was suspended on a tripod over the burning logs, and buckets of cold water were set about. Thea eyed it longingly, but days passed before she succumbed to the temptation of stripping off her clothes and submitting her tired body to the soothing water. It wouldn’t even have happened then, if she hadn’t heard Cian Cosgrove’s loud shouts ordering lackeys about in the courtyard below and seen him ride out over the drawbridge just as the sun set. Hopeful that he had gone off to visit one of his whores, she tipped the hot water into the tub, tempered it
with cold from the buckets, wriggled out of her clothes and climbed into the tub.

Thea groaned as she sank into the water. The warmth radiating from the hearth fire chased the draft leaking through the broken glass rattling in the window. She leaned her head back against the cold metal and closed her eyes, but she couldn’t enjoy it. Her thoughts were too dark and frightening to let her relax. If only she hadn’t been separated from Drumcondra in the passage tomb, if only she had come back with him his death might have been prevented. He had begged to go back once he realized they had come through the corridor into her time. That deuced corridor! It was a dangerous vehicle. There was no rhyme or reason to it, at least not one that she could make out. At first she thought her passage through it was to bring them together—two soul mates separated by time, united by a love that transcended it. It was a most agreeable fiction that had sustained her . . . until now. Drumcondra’s death had cancelled that philosophy. All that remained was to discover the circumstances behind her disappearance as legend recorded it.

When the door came open in Cosgrove’s hand, Thea gave such a lurch, water spilled over the side of the tub and splashed on the floor, just missing the fur rug she’d dropped there. He was staggering drunk as he lumbered close.

“You are easily flummoxed, m’dear,” he said in a drunken titter. “I knew once you saw me ride off, you would take advantage of my little gift.”

“You are castaway, sir!” she cried, eyeing the door he’d left flung wide behind him in his drunken haze. “How dare you compromise me in this way!” Drawing her knees up in the tub, she crossed her arms over her breasts. “We struck a bargain. Drunk or sober, I mean to hold you to it.”

“Yes, well, I tire of the bargain, madam,” he drawled, reeling closer. “Besides, there are other ways of pleasuring a man than those which result in getting offspring. It is time we explored some of those, hmm?” He dangled his hand over the edge of the tub and began stirring the water with his finger.

“Explore to your heart’s content upon your whores, sir,” she sallied. “I see no clergy here.”

“You mean to hold me to that, too, do you?” he said, slapping the water. Droplets stung her face, and she blinked the water out of her eyes and tossed her dark curls, a soft outcry escaping her at the suddenness of the motion. “You marry that Gypsy bastard with a mere word, yet you demand a vicar sanctify our union.” he went on, slapping the water again. “You were never meant for Ros Drumcondra. You were meant for me! The blackguard stole you from me.”

“I cannot help that, sir. I had nothing to say in the matter. The fact still remains that we were properly wed, and if you wish the same privilege, you shall have it via the clergy. How else will your issue be legitimate?”

“
Properly wed
,” he said, his face twisted in a drunken snarl. How ugly he was thus, with his scars puckering his cheek and drawing the corner of his mouth down. He looked like a rabid animal crouching over the tub. “What? You spoke some Gypsy gibberish and you call that properly wed?”

“Our vows were binding.”

“Good! Say the same with me, and let us end this game of cat and mouse forthwith.”

“You are not a Gypsy. That rite between us would be invalid, sir. Now, if you please, I beg you leave me in peace to finish my toilette, which you have so kindly provided.”

“Enough!” he thundered. Reaching into the tub, he
hauled her to her feet, feasting upon the sight of her naked, dripping water in the firelight, despite her efforts to preserve modesty.

Thea screamed at the top of her voice as he lifted her out of the tub, tossed her down upon the bed, and dropped down beside her. He was aroused, the bulk of his manhood leaning against her thigh. Capturing both her wrists in one hand, he raised her arms above her head and explored her body with the other.

Thea screamed again, and he wrenched her closer still. “Scream all you will,” he said. “No one will come to your aid. The only ally you had hereabouts brave enough to do that was Drumcondra’s bitch of a mother. I killed her too—oh, aye, I killed them both—and I could just as easily kill you . . . but not before I’ve had my fill of you. So do not struggle if you want to keep any part of that bargain. Struggling only stimulates me. And if you think the few tankards I’ve drunk will spare you, dream on. One way or the other, you will relieve me, madam.”

Nigel’s words on Cian’s lips covered Thea with gooseflesh.

His breath was coming short. Between vulgar moans he groped and pinched and pawed at her, and more screams rasped through her dry throat. All at once there was another scream so loud it nearly stopped her heart, and the great bird crashed through the cracked windowpane, talons first, shattering the glass, its wings beating the shards out of the way as it entered the room. Thea glimpsed a flash of onyx tinged with red in the firelight, as its eye sought and found its target and attacked in a flapping screeching frenzy, its talons firmly planting in Cosgrove’s shaggy hair.

The bird’s piercing screams at such close range vibrated in Thea’s ears until they rang with the deafening din. Cosgrove let her go and staggered to his feet, battling with the
bird whose sharp beak continued to pluck relentlessly at his scalp, beating a tattoo that drew blood. Free of her captor’s crude embrace, Thea scrambled off the bed on the far side, rolling herself in the fur rug beneath her and crouching on the floor, her eyes wide in disbelief as she watched the struggle.

If Cosgrove had been sober, he would have rent the bird in two in his hammish hands. As it was, the minute he got a grip on the creature, groping blind in his stupor, its sharp beak canceled it. His hands and wrists were running with blood, his curses ringing from the rafters. Then, all at once, the falcon let go and soared above, circling in triumph as the warrior swung at it crazily.

Time was a monster that bore no reckoning. What seemed like an eternity occurred in mere seconds. At first, Thea was certain the bird would leave as it had come, through the window. To her surprise, it seemed to gloat, taunting Cosgrove, flying in circles just out of reach as he stumbled after it, arms flailing in the stale musty air. Thea watched in rapt amazement as Cosgrove spun, heaving and grunting, reeling dizzily in circles. He snatched up one of the fur rugs on the bed and began swiping at the bird with that, but still it eluded him.

Thea grabbed her gray muslin frock and cloak from the floor where she’d discarded them earlier, dressed herself, and tugged on her ankle boots. As bizarre as it seemed, the bird appeared to be luring Cosgrove toward the open door. The dizzying effects of strong spirits and the exercise combating the falcon had evidently overcome him. He had only one mission then, defeating the bird—Drumcondra’s bird, the bird that had blinded him. It had his full and fierce attention. He seemed to have forgotten Thea altogether, and when the creature soared through the door he staggered after it, a fresh spate of blue expletives pouring from his lips.

Thea jumped to her feet and ran to the door. The bird’s flapping wings created a cold draft funneling along the corridor, which attacked her moist skin, still damp from the bath, and made her shudder. She stood for a moment, watching the falcon soar back and forth at the end of the gallery, taunting the warrior toward the balustrade, enticing him to reach over the edge as he continued to swipe at it with the fur rug. All at once the bird’s black eyes flashed toward her from the dusty haze at the other end of that narrow corridor. If ever a bird could speak, this one did now. Those piercing eyes said
run
, and Thea slipped into the hallway while Cosgrove was occupied, and melted into the shadows along the darkened east wing.

A chorus of bloodcurdling screeches from the falcon, coupled with Cosgrove’s drunken outcry as he toppled over the balustrade railing, waging his attack upon the bird, spurred her on. Judging from his shouts from below, bringing others to the scene, the fall hadn’t killed him. It had, she was confident, made an end to his amorous advances for a time. Bested by the bird and embarrassed before his men, Cosgrove’s main priority would be his vanity. The commotion gave her just what she needed: time to escape. And with the bird’s triumphant screams grown distant, she hurried down the back stairs to a narrow hallway that led to the kitchens, and stole along until she reached an alcove under the stairs. Hidden there, she watched Cosgrove’s men stream along the corridor from the servants’ area to where the warrior had fallen in the great hall. She held her breath as more came to his rescue, responding to his surly drunken commands.

Awaiting her chance to flee, she lingered there until it was safe enough to assume most in residence had gone to Cosgrove’s aid. Then, with his bluster ringing in her ears, Thea crept along the narrow hallway to a rear servant’s
door, and rushed out into the cold night air. Overhead, the winter moon was nearly full. No one was posted at the drawbridge. Every available man had gone to Cosgrove’s assistance. Thea glanced about. The way was clear. Scarcely breathing, she hitched up her skirts and fled.

Wagons had come and gone during the day, leaving tracks in the snow. Keeping well within those, Thea ran on until she reached the wood, a close eye skyward in search of the bird that had set her free. Had Drumcondra reached from beyond the grave and sent his familiar to save her? Whether he had or he hadn’t, that was exactly what had just occurred. With hope in her heart that the falcon would not desert her, she continued traveling west, picking her way from tree to tree at the edge of the grove. The river gurgling in the distance somehow was a comfort. She wasn’t alone. Nature welcomed her then. Woodland creatures ventured near, watching. Rabbits hopped from their warrens, then a fox, and in the distance, the antlers of a roe deer were visible in the moonlight at the edge of the clearing. She thought of James, and of his expectations of bagging deer in the Meath hills, like the friend he’d boasted of. There would be no hunting parties now. Was she going mad? This was the least of her worries. She was going to
die
here, to disappear from the pages of recorded history just as Drumcondra had. She would never see James again, or her father, her mother—anyone from her time, come to that.

Thea glanced behind. None were in pursuit, and she filled her lungs with the cold night air in relief, but she did not slow her pace. Soon enough Cosgrove’s men would discover her missing and swarm over the valley. She dared not stop to rest.

It wasn’t until she reached the hillock the forest bearded that her gaze swept the land between the clearing
and Falcon’s Lair, and what had been the battlefield. The moonlight showed it clearly. It wasn’t her imagination; the irregular shapes of what could only be the bodies of fallen warriors barely concealed beneath the snow littered the hills. What showed them to her were the hulking mounds that barely concealed the warrior’s likewise fallen horses. Was Cabochon among them? Her heart sank, and tears welled in her eyes. Somewhere under that white blanket Ros Drumcondra lay dead, run through by Cian Cosgrove’s sword. It hadn’t really impacted her until now, seeing the sight with her own eyes, and she sobbed aloud despite the danger of attracting any of Cosgrove’s men who might be keeping watch. What it did attract was a welcome sight. Above her the great bird appeared, its tether bells tinkling musically as it left the uppermost branches of an ancestral pine where it had been perching. Gliding low, it left the wood and circled the nearby hills. A last goodbye to its master? It seemed so to Thea, who was looking on through her tears.

The display was short-lived. One last pass over the land, and the bird soared back to the edge of the wood where Thea crouched watching. Dipping low, it loosed a melancholy screech that nearly stopped her heart. Was it an invitation to follow? Would it lead her away from danger, or straight to her doom? She had no choice but to trust it. Hadn’t it just abetted her escape?

Her mind was made up in a heartbeat. There really wasn’t a choice. Neither knowing nor caring where it would lead her without Drumcondra, Thea left the wood and followed the falcon westward.

Chapter Twenty-three

“People do not just disappear, Barrington,” Nigel said, pacing the length of the Aubusson carpet in the drawing room at Cashel Cosgrove.

James hesitated. His viscount father was also awaiting an explanation from his vantage on the lounge across the way. As if he knew the answer. It was beyond the beyond. He was angry, to put it mildly. It would serve them both right, were he to blurt out the truth. He just might.

“What do you expect of me?” he said instead, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“An explanation,” Nigel pronounced. “You were with her, Barrington. What possessed you? How could you just let her hare off like that?”