The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (64 page)

Branna hummed the tune her mother used to sing when she was scared. Her intuition told her to leave, but she wasn’t about to relinquish her quest. The song’s words spil ed from her lips in time with her work. Scrape using the spade, wiggle the rock, wrest it out of the ground and throw it aside. It could have been minutes or hours she worked making smal , but determined progress.

“I see you dig your own grave.”

Branna whirled. She lost her balance and sprawled at the feet of a large, white stal ion. Through strands of her tousled hair, she stared at the imposing man upon the great steed.

Wrapped in a dark cloak, the moonlight creating shadows across his face, he wielded a great broadsword. He vaulted from his mount and brought the point of his sword to her throat.

Her heart thumped wildly. Just as sure as Aunt Meeda had warned, she looked straight into the face of evil.

Two

Devlin gripped the weapon tightly, his anger building. “Who dares to dig a hole on my property?” He couldn’t keep the venom from his voice. “State your business.” The intruder brushed aside long, wavy hair exposing a delicate face. Devlin realized his thief was a woman. He instantly withdrew his sword, but didn’t yet sheath it.

When his horse Ailbay had scented someone unfamiliar, Devlin expected to find sheep thieves or wolves, but a woman singing and digging in the dirt? Never.

She stood, brushing soil from her skirts. “’Tis my concern and not yours.” Devlin lifted his brows at the edge of impatience in her tone. Her feathers were ruffled, were they? The moonlight offered a taste of her light eyes and high cheekbones. Her voice, strong, confident and with a hint of tantalizing sweetness, poured over him like thick Irish cream. Her other features would wait for better light.

He rubbed a hand over his face, irritated at her intrusion. He was already on edge. “I’m Devlin, Lord MacKenna, Master of Hol ylough. Every rock holds my interest.”

“Then your land holds an object of mine.”

Devlin sensed movement in the shadows behind her. His hounds had spread out in the darkness. Waiting. Watching.

“What here would be of interest to a common grave robber?”

Her quick intake of breath told him he’d hit a sensitive mark.

“Nay. ’Tis nothing common I seek.”

A high-pitched howl split the quiet. The dogs grew bolder, circling closer. The woman heard it and bolted towards him, coming dangerously close to the blade of his sword.

Devlin sheathed it with a snap. “Witless goose, do you wish to die by my sword?” She stepped back. “Nay. I’ve no wish to die by sword or by dogs.”

“The hounds are restless. You’l be safe with me.” He offered her his arm.

“Nay. I’m not leaving til I find what I seek.”

He felt his ire rise at the battle of wil s. If she told him nay once more, Devlin would be tempted to leave her.

He glanced towards the trees, then to the sky. His response was curt. “You’l be fortunate to escape with your life. Come, the moonlight has disappeared and a storm threatens.” She pointed to a horse in the distance and worried her bottom lip. “I’l fol ow on Mol y. I’l not leave her to the dogs.”

Her horse stomped nervously outside the stone circle. Devlin understood her uneasiness. He had yet to take his vows, not for another night. He wasn’t sure he could control them should they attack.

“Nay. She is too distant. I’l grab her reins as we pass. Get on Ailbay.” The woman approached his white steed with caution. Giving her no more space to disagree, Devlin reached down and grasped her about the waist. He easily lifted her to the neck of his horse, her legs positioned to the side. Then he settled back into the saddle and brought her back against him. He crossed his arms around her waist to keep her seated safely and grabbed the reins.

Devlin spurred Ailbay forward, his horse easily taking the extra burden over the stone wal , and gal oped towards the protection of Hol ylough.

Devlin leaned over to grab Mol y’s reins.

The woman blocked his arm. “Nay.”

She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled loudly. Mol y raised her head and fel in step behind Ailbay. Devlin nodded his head, impressed.

“My lady, your horse is wel trained, as if she’d fol ow you to the ends of the earth.”

“Aye, she would.”

With each stretch of Ailbay’s stride, his arms clasped the woman’s ribcage, her warmth infusing his upper body. She felt trim, but muscular, not so delicate that she’d break at the slightest stumble.

Her rose scent reached his nostrils and dared him further. He’d been a long time without a woman to warm his bed and blood. This comely one aroused his interest as wel as his manhood.

Devlin knew he was restless. He had grown to manhood knowing this day would come. His family’s bloodline was cursed. Written long ago, al the children were destined to become Hel hounds. He was the Chosen One; the one selected to master the hounds that guarded their supernatural treasures. This rite would occur on the day of his twenty-fifth year, on the morrow.

He’d become one of them.

His attention strayed to the woman who relaxed against him, snuggling deeper into his chest as she adjusted to Ailbay’s motion. With her buttocks nestled between his thighs, he realized she fitted wel enough in his arms, better than most. She might prove to be the distraction he needed this night.

Once past the gatehouse and inside the curtain wal s, he slowed Ailbay and angled him towards the stables in the lower bailey. He reined in and slid off the horse, handing both horses to his waiting groom. Devlin ruffled the boy’s hair.

“Finn, I know ’tis late and your mother wishes you to be abed. The horses have worked hard tonight. Give them extra oats and curry them wel . I shal make sure tomorrow you have a lighter load.”

Devlin reached to assist the woman down.

She put her hands on his shoulders and winced, pul ing her hands away as her feet touched the ground. Devlin snatched one hand and saw her roughened, bleeding fingers.

He gently touched her abraded palm. Before his groom left the yard he cal ed, “Finn, bring me the healing salve.” He waited for the lad to hand him the paste, then took her arm and led her towards his keep.

Branna pul ed back. Lord MacKenna, with his fierce, dark eyes regarded her critical y. She prayed he couldn’t know how badly her hands shook. “I . . . I should return home, my lord.” Branna didn’t wish to be with him a moment longer than necessary. She had no idea why she couldn’t breathe.

He shook his head. “Not this night.” The stony stil ness of his expression gentled when he gave her a half-smile. It changed his face, softened it, adding a touch of vulnerability.

“I wil escort you home on the morrow. For now you are under my protection.” They entered the great square keep from a steep set of stone stairs and a thick wooden door.

They climbed more stairs at the corner, spiral ing upwards past several floors to the top, where he opened another heavy door and they entered the upper solar. “This is my private chamber. In here you wil be safe.”

Safe from whom? Him?

He strode to a sideboard against the far wal . While he searched for something, Branna looked about the room, soft light from several candelabras il uminating the darkest corners.

The primary item of furniture dominating the room was a great bed with a heavy wooden frame overlaid with quilts, a thick fur coverlet and pil ows. The bed was curtained; its linen draperies pul ed back and tied to the bedposts with leather straps. An arched fireplace took over one wal , soot blackening the protective hood of stone. Several chests and a hanging tapestry graced the opposite side of the room.

“Remove your cloak.”

Branna complied, even though the room was damp. She laid it over a nearby slatted chair.

Devlin came back to her with the pot of salve and a cloth. He dipped his fingers into the paste and took her right hand.

With surprising gentleness, he rubbed the waxy paste into the palm of her hand, covering the cuts and abrasions.

“Your name?”

“’Tis Lady Branna Mordah.”

“Pray tel me, my lady, what was of such significance tonight that you would risk your life?” She glanced at his face. His eyes met hers, as dark and shiny as wet slate.

“I seek an heirloom of my mother’s which was stolen when she died.”

“And you think ’tis buried here? You are surely mistaken.”

The salve had been wel worked into her skin, but he continued to massage her hand, sending delicious tingles up her arm and down to her toes, making her even more nervous.

“Your one hand wil need a dressing. ’Tis the most damaged.”

“What is this ointment? It has the scent of flowers.”

“’Tis calendula salve, made from the leaves of marigolds and lavender. ’Tis used upon the horses.”

Did his horses receive such wonderful rub-downs? She wanted to be covered with the fragrant salve. Branna shook her head before those thoughts went further.

As he wrapped her right hand with a cloth, Branna shifted her eyes to the decorative windows.

Moonlight spil ed through, glinting off the pieces of coloured glass, highlighting the central tree design. Branna gasped and pul ed her hand away.

“Your windows. I’ve seen that design.”

“Nay, ’tis impossible. It was created for Hol ylough Castle years ago. My home is so named for the hol y trees in the thicket by the lough’s edge. There are no windows like it.” Her heart thumped wildly. But Branna had seen them long ago. She gripped Devlin’s arm. “Do you have a chapel with those same windows?”

“Aye, of course.”

“Take me there.”

“Tomorrow. The windows are most beautiful with the coming sun.”

“No. Now.” Branna touched his arm, feeling his steely muscles beneath the tunic sleeve.

“Please, I mean you no trouble, but I must see the chapel tonight.” Branna hated the desperation in her tone, but couldn’t be refused.

He searched her eyes and smoothed a lock of hair from her face. He careful y took her hand. “I’l take you.”

In the outer ward, the wind gusted, blowing dirt and straw about. Branna was sorry to have left behind her cloak. Devlin led her to a stone building adjacent to the great hal . He opened the double wooden doors and stepped aside.

Branna walked towards the altar. “The first time I walked down this aisle, I touched al the wooden benches along the way.”

Branna knew Devlin listened behind her.

“We were to be a family. Mama looked beautiful in a yel ow wedding gown with her dark hair free about her shoulders. She wore a crown of white flowers I made for her.” Branna had reached the front of the chapel and looked up at the window, her mind far back in time. “I remember the stained glass with the tree at its centre, the curled branches and red berries.

So beautiful. So perfect.”

Branna shuddered as she ran her hands over the altar. “Until the dogs came. Tiarna helped hide me under this bord and I was safe.”

Branna turned to Devlin. Tears ran down her cheeks. “The dogs kil ed them. Tore at them and stole my mother’s emerald chalice; took her life.” She tightened her jaw. “I want them back.”
Three

Devlin drew Branna to him. He wrapped her in his arms, drawing comfort as wel as giving it. He breathed into her hair, “God’s blood. That was your mother.” She raised her head and looked at him askance. “My mother was here that night, in your chapel, as was I. You must know what happened?”

“I know very little. Only that the hounds kil ed my father by accident that night. I was twelve and squiring at a neighbouring estate. I was summoned home for the funeral, but only told the dogs were driven crazy and had wrongly attacked him.”

“Tiarna was your father? Why did you not find me?”

“I knew nothing of you. By the time I arrived home, it was days later. You were long gone and my household was ruled by my uncle. I could not legal y return and take over as master until I had reached my majority.”

“’Twas the chalice the dogs were after.” Branna buried her face into his chest.

Devlin didn’t know what to believe. There was more to his father’s death than he’d been told.

His uncle had only said that he was to take on the leadership role after his father had died.

“You were looking for the emerald chalice at the tomb.”

Branna nodded against his shoulder.

Devlin frowned. “How can this chalice bring your mother back? She’s been dead nearly fifteen years.”

She stepped out of his arms and her blue eyes brightened. “The chalice is magic. It can bring my mother back from the dead. ’Tis my heart’s desire.”

Devlin had never heard of such a cup. “How did your family come by this magic chalice?”

“My ancestor Liam once saved a gnome from the jaws of a serpent. The gnome was very grateful and, since gnomes are known for excel ent metalwork, as a reward, the chalice was given to Liam, with the instruction that drinking from it would bring forth his heart’s desire.” Why had he never been told of their parents’ marriage or the chalice? He’d have to ask his uncle for an explanation to determine the truth of her words.

“Your mother died long ago. Why have you waited until now to get her back?”

“You can drink from the chalice only once in a lifetime.” She dropped her head. “I waited til I knew my heart’s desire.”

He slipped a finger beneath her chin. “What convinced you?”

“My uncle’s family is to marry me off, as I am past my prime, but no one has offered. Everyone is afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of me. My aunt has spread lies about me, saying I was the evil one who cal ed the dogs, kil ing my own mother. She is jealous and hateful. I could not endure the shame.” He held her a few more moments, rubbing her back, worried by her chil ed skin.

“We must leave. The storm worsens.” In truth, he needed to leave this place of painful memories.