The Falcon's Bride (29 page)

“I was not with her, Cosgrove,” James corrected him. “When I discovered her missing, I went in search of her and found her at Newgrange. She caught me off guard, took my horse and rode off—”

“After that Drummond chap, eh?” Nigel cut in. What a
fierce-looking image he presented with his scarred face and eye patch. His nostrils were flared, and his lips had gone white with rage. “What happened to the bounder? He was not with her when I saw her driving my Andalusian like a bedlamite in the hills west of Drogheda. And what happened to that horse? Do you have any inkling of the value of such an animal? No, of course you do not. I will be compensated for the loss, make no mistake about it!”

“Which loss, Cosgrove—your precious hack, or my sister?” James retorted.

“You go too far, sir! That horse is worth a fortune—hardly a hack—and your sister is my betrothed—”

“Not any longer, so it seems,” James interrupted with a coarse chuckle.

“I will not stand it! I will not be cuckolded! Her behavior is unacceptable!”

“And what of
your
behavior, sir?” James shot back. “I’ve held my peace until now, but I will no longer. If you have lost her, you have driven her off with your insufferable abuse.”

“Are you seeking satisfaction, Barrington? Because if you are, I am only too willing to oblige you. Declare your intentions, sir. Your veiled threats of calling me out are tiresome and inappropriate.”

“Here now,” the viscount put in, vaulting to his feet. “Let us not be hasty, gentlemen. Nothing is served in hostile bickering. We need to have Thea back. That is paramount here.”

“I’ll tell you what is paramount,” Nigel seethed. “That both of you leave my house at once! Our arrangements are concluded—unless, as you imply, you wish to settle this with pistols or swords?”

“Your servant, sir!” James said, expanding his posture. “That will come later if needs must. In the meanwhile, we
will remain at Cashel Cosgrove until Thea is found, since it is you who have driven her from your house, sir. Then we shall see if it wants pistols or swords. By God, if one hair upon her head has been harmed in this, you will rue the day you ever met the Barringtons!”

“That has already occurred,” Nigel said. “Now then, I am still awaiting an explanation. Who is this Drummond individual—a Gypsy if ever I set eyes upon one—and what is he to your sister?”

There was a long pause. “I honestly do not know,” James said at the end of it.

Nigel gave a deep nod. “I see,” he said. “Well, let me tell you what I think. Your sister is a whore, sir—no better than a Penzance roundheels. She contrived to legitimize herself in an alliance with me while carrying on an affair with her Gypsy lover. She—”

James’s white-knuckled fist interrupted the rest. Nigel staggered backward into the gateleg table, wiping blood from his nose.

“You earned the facer,” James said, flexing his bruised knuckles. “Count yourself fortunate it wasn’t a leveler. I don’t happen to have a glove on me at the moment for a traditional calling out, but I shan’t stand here and allow you to malign and slander my sister, you jackanapes! And I’ve heard all about your lightskirt.”

“I was acquitted, you ass!”

“Ha! That does not make you innocent,” James said. “Many a guilty man roams this planet set free by money drenched in blood.”

Nigel lunged, but the viscount put himself between them, one hand splayed on each of their chests.

“Stand aside, Father,” James charged. “You did not see the mark this bounder left upon our Thea’s mouth. He drew blood, sir!”

“No, son, I did not,” the viscount replied, “and it is fortunate for the bounder that I did not. Cosgrove, my daughter was never agreeable to a union with you. She accepted to please me, and would have honored the commitment to her dying day if she could have found one admirable trait to recommend you. Such is her character, sir. If she has fallen in love with another, you have driven her to it, and you have no one to blame but yourself. You are a boor, a rake, and a rattle. I release you from our bargain. And if you are fool enough to go up against my son on the dueling ground, I will pray for you. He’s held a record at Manton’s Gallery in London for two years running.”

“You don’t frighten me, Barrington,” Nigel snapped, still dabbing at his bleeding nose. “This isn’t London.”

“How well I know it!” the viscount sallied. “There is neither chivalry nor honor here amongst your lot, I am sorry to say. And such shoddy behavior from
you
, who have spent half your life in England, sir, where it abounds! I am appalled. Why, your own father couldn’t be coerced to put in an appearance at your wedding! What does that say to the world at large?”

“I care little for your opinion of me, sir,” Nigel said, “and even less for that of the world at large. The fact remains that my intended has run off with another man, whilst enjoying the hospitality of my home. I mean to know why.”

“Well, I cannot oblige you,” said James. “The ‘whys’ needs must come from Thea, and while we wait for that, I would advise that you select a second, sir. This here between us is settled the instant I set eyes upon her again.”

James stalked toward the doorway, but Nigel’s bark turned him around when he reached it.

“Where the devil do you think you’re going?” he said. “We haven’t finished here. I want some answers, Barrington!”

“So far as I am concerned, we were finished before we commenced,” said James. “And as to where I am going, I go to do what you have failed to do—find my sister.”

Thea leaned against a tree trunk at the edge of the wood to catch her breath, which was puffing white in the darkness. The cold air seared her lungs and her sobs squeaked past her dry throat. Above, the bird came and went, impatient. She could not travel as fast as it could fly borne on the wind. Her feet were numb, bogged down in the snow; it had penetrated her ankle boots. There would be chilblains; it was inevitable. It didn’t matter. History had it that she, too, had disappeared. Perhaps it was right that she die among her Gypsy husband’s comrades . . . by his side. Perhaps that was where the bird was leading.

Her lungs burning, Thea pushed off from the tree and staggered on, her ears pricked for the tinkling of the bird’s tether bells. When she couldn’t see it clearly for the trees, it was the sound of the bells she followed. It wasn’t the sound of the falcon’s bells that pulled her up short, however. It was the thunder of horses’ hooves that shook the ground beneath her. Cosgrove’s men! So she hadn’t crossed over. She was still in the past.

She glanced behind. The riders appeared like a dark cloud silhouetted against the snow, and she backed deeper into the wood and held her breath, praying they wouldn’t decide to seek her there.

It was no use without a horse. What could she have been thinking to set out afoot in the dark, attempting to travel such a distance bogged down in the snow? They were nearly abreast of her—a dozen riders—when a hand on her shoulder spun her around to face a hunched, heavily cloaked figure lurking like a shadow among the trees. Though the hand had slipped away from Thea’s shoulder,
she still tingled from its touch, and she shuddered due to something other than the cold. She assessed it to be a woman standing there by the way the person moved, though it was nearly impossible to be sure of gender. The hood was pulled down so low that no features were visible. The figure did not speak, but gestured deeply in with a wide sweep of a cloaked arm, beckoning her to follow.

Thea hesitated, her eyes oscillating between the strange person at her elbow and the steady stream of Cosgrove’s men riding past. Their number had doubled. It was only a matter of time before they turned back and searched the woods when they didn’t find her elsewhere. Still she hung back, searching the sky through the trees for some sign of the bird; but it had disappeared when the riders came.

“Come daughter,” the specter said, for that was what it seemed then—a specter risen from the evening mist. The weather was turning warmer. Soon the snow would melt, revealing Drumcondra’s body, and Thea prayed that whatever was going to happen to cause her disappearance from history would be swift to spare her the sight. “My time is short. It must be now,” the woman urged.

Something in the sound of that voice seemed familiar, yet distant, the words overlapping as if they were coming from an echo chamber. For a moment, Thea wondered if she had heard it at all or if it was only a whisper ghosting across her mind.

“Who are you?” she murmured.

“Come,” the woman said, sweeping her arm wider still.

Thea started to follow, but the deeper she ventured into the forest, the darker it became, and the more she feared danger. Sight of the bird would have been a comfort then, but there was no sign of it, nor did she hear the tether bells. Could it be perched above, hidden from Cosgrove’s men? Or had it abandoned her?

“Where are you taking me?” Thea demanded of the figure moving weightlessly before her. How odd that was for one so heavily cloaked. The woman almost seemed to float over the snow, while Thea meanwhile struggled, plowing through drifts linking the trees. “Wait!” she called. She could barely make the shape out now, though she was right beside her.

Acting on impulse, Thea reached out and threw the woman’s hood back—only to utter a shriek that somehow managed to pass as a strangled whisper. The hood was empty. There was no one there.

“Do not fear me, daughter,” the spirit said. “Have I ever harmed ye?”

All at once, recognition struck, and Thea cried, “
Jeta . . . ?
”

“Shhhh,” the specter said. “The Gypsy dead can only help the living once, daughter.”

“It cannot be?” Thea murmured. “I am imagining this. . . .”

“I am come to right a wrong that will not let me rest,” the specter said. “I brought the pelerine to Si An Bhru. It was meant to bring ye both, but the Cosgrove killed me before the way was clear, and the corridor closed without ye. The magic wasn’t strong enough to bring ye both without me, the guardian of the passage tomb. I travel it in spirit now, for that is where Cian Cosgrove struck the blow that killed me . . . in my time. But my son did not find me dead when he crossed over. I crawled outside to die in the wood and spare him the sight. Ye see me now, the way ye saw his ghost in your time, daughter. . . .”

“
You
brought my pelerine?” Thea was incredulous. “I thought . . . Drina . . .”

“I had it back from Drina before she set the fire.”

“W-where are you taking me?”

“To . . . your . . . destiny . . .” the specter said, then it faded altogether.

Thea spun in circles, but there was no one there. She called Jeta’s name, but there was no answer. Surely she had imagined it all. That was all it was; her imagination had gotten the better of her. Still, she searched the forest ahead and behind with narrowed eyes, praying for the darkness to give birth to something familiar, something real—some sign of the destiny the specter had promised.

It was then that she heard it: the tether bells. Above her, the uppermost branches clacked together, and pinecones fell. The bird! But it was leading her into the open on the far side of the wood. Should she not stay hidden? It only took a moment to decide. She had trusted the bird before. She would do so again. Had it not just saved her from the advances of Cian Cosgrove? Bounding over the drifted snow between the trees, she left the shelter of the wood and braved the open valley.

The lay of the land did not seem familiar here. She couldn’t get her bearings. The air was warmer now. The snow had all but melted. No horsemen’s tracks marred the frosty layer that remained, only what appeared to be wagon tracks leading . . . which way were they leading? North? West? Thea couldn’t tell. She glanced behind for a glimpse of Falcon’s Lair to fix her position, but another forest blocked her view. She was lost on the far side of a dense wood that bearded an unfamiliar glen. She studied the wagon tracks slicing through the hoarfrost. They were freshly made by the look of them. The moon showed them to her with clarity. There was nothing for it but to follow them up a hillock ahead, toward which the bird soared also.

The hills and valleys stretching before her seemed
unreal—a land enchanted, dusted with a sugary crust that twinkled like spangles in the moonlight. There was no sound save her boots crunching on the transparent surface. Keeping the bird in sight, she trudged on until she reached the top of the hill and saw what had made the tracks she was following. Below in the valley, nestled in a clearing at the edge of another stand of pines, a Gypsy camp appeared: wagons painted crimson, teal, and yellow, their brilliant colors muted by the darkness. A fire was lit beside them. Was it safe to approach? Thea hesitated. How she longed to warm herself beside that fire. But Cosgrove’s men would surely stop there to inquire of her. Overhead, the great bird screeched and soared toward the wagons. Surely, it would not go where Cosgrove’s men would kill it. When the falcon dropped out of the sky and perched upon the lead wagon, it was all the encouragement Thea needed. Bolting out of the wood, she scrambled down the hillock and plowed toward the wagons through the tall grass dusted white with frost.

All at once, a chill wind fanned her hot face as she neared the camp. A disembodied voice riding it grazed her ear in a hushed whisper. Though she spun in circles and nearly lost her footing in the slippery stuff beneath her feet in search of the author it, there wasn’t a soul in sight, only a dog barking a warning to the sleeping Gypsies in the wagons below.

“Ye see me no more,” the specter whispered across her mind, “though I be with ye always. Trust the bird . . .
his
familiar. Follow where it leads ye, daughter. Ye are the Falcon’s bride.”

Cold chills riddled Thea’s body from head to toe, as the eerie voice was siphoned off on the wind. It died then, as suddenly as it had come, and she swayed as if she’d been struck. Movement at the Gypsy camp caught her eye. Two
men came running, the dog at their heels, but Thea’s eyes were riveted to the falcon still perched clucking and preening on the roof of the lead wagon. She stood her ground. It was useless to run.