The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (65 page)

Fear came into her eyes, darkening them to a deepwater blue. “Wil the dogs be waiting for us?”

Devlin kissed the tear stains on her cheeks. “I’l protect you, my lady.” The wind howled and rain lashed Branna’s face as Devlin took her hand and they stepped outside the chapel. Even with his promise, Branna’s eyes darted around the bailey, waiting for the dogs to attack. Every sound heightened her fear, pul ing at her memories.

In the safety of Lord MacKenna’s chamber, a blazing fire snapped in the fireplace, beating back the chil ed dampness and her panic. Branna was surprised his servants were stil up at this late hour. She stood by the warmth of the fireplace and rubbed her wet arms.

“You should remove your wet clothing.” Lord MacKenna held out to her an armful of fabrics. “You ought to find something warmer in here.”

Branna took the proffered garments. “Thank you. I
am
chil ed.”

“There is a wardrobe behind that tapestry.” Devlin pointed to a thick wool carpet hanging from the wooden rafters dyed vibrant colours.

Hidden behind the tapestry, Branna slipped out of her damp, low riding boots. She unclipped her brooch and slipped out of her loose-sleeved surcoat, wet almost through. She touched the deep blue wool of her long-sleeved gown and discovered it was almost as wet and radiated an unpleasant odour. It too had to go. She sat on the wooden bench and peeled off her hose.

Final y, Branna stood only in her long linen chemise, exposed to the draughts. Branna rummaged through the garments and chose one of Lord Connal’s linen shirts. The neckband and the wristbands were embroidered in colour and design to match the windows of the castle. She slipped it over her head and smoothed the material down, admiring its quality. She breathed in Devlin’s scent of wood smoke, sweat and horses, which clung to his shirt. She liked the earthy, very masculine aroma.

Taking a deep breath, Branna stepped out from behind the tapestry. She instantly felt Lord MacKenna’s eyes on her, but snapped her head around when she heard the door to the chamber close.

“My steward has brought an evening repast. Come and eat. You must be famished.” Lord MacKenna was seated at a smal table beside the bed. Branna approached the table set with trays of food, two bread trenchers and a pair of glass goblets.

One tray was piled high with cheese, almonds, figs, dates and raisins. The other tray held a selection of meats and fish: venison, chicken and haddock. Her mouth watered.

“Aye, ’tis been many hours since I’ve eaten.”

Devlin indicated the empty chair and from a flagon poured a pale yel ow liquid into the two glasses.

“Sit.”

Branna nodded and grateful y took the seat. She sampled a few of the selections and gulped a swal ow of the sweetened wine. It burned going down and she coughed. It wasn’t watered as she’d expected.

Once she caught her breath, she asked, “Your mother, what was she like?” Devlin studied her a moment. She met his eyes without apology. “She was like sunshine lighting al the corners of the castle. We’d take long summer walks in the sweet fields and sometimes pick berries in the wood. Then she was gone.”

He shrugged his shoulders and she felt him take an emotional step back.

“I remember my father was bereft. Shortly after her death I was sent away, earlier than the other children had been. I was never certain if my father loved me or if I was too much a reminder of her.

That is why I was surprised to learn of his new marriage.”

“Your mother sounds very much like my mother.” Branna swal owed hard over the sudden lump of sadness in her throat. “Since I was so young, my grandmama has told me stories of my mother and her childhood. I’d like to find the chalice before she passes on to the heavens.”

“I too have an uncle who took me in and gave me reason to go on,” Devlin said softly. “I doubt you remember anything of your father?”

“Nay. He died when I was only two years. My mother told me he was a good provider, but I don’t believe she was content.”

“My father, do you have memories of him?” Devlin’s tone was tentative, the question careful y asked. It touched a place in her heart.

Branna smiled and gripped his hand that lay on the table. She wanted to pul him into her arms, as he’d done for her, and soothe him.

“Many times he spoke to us of his son with great love and pride. He welcomed the day you would return. He wished for us to meet and have in this castle a great family.” A mixture of tenderness and longing hit Branna. “He was a good man. He used to cal me ‘Little Raven’ for my dark hair.” She whispered, “He saved my life that night.”

Devlin abruptly pul ed his hand away. He cleared his throat and rose. “Please excuse me while I change into dry clothing.”

She watched him stalk towards the wardrobe, not sure if he was upset at her or his father . . . or both.

Within the wardrobe, Devlin sank to the bench feeling the weight of his heritage. Bitter agony rose to his throat. He didn’t want to be Houndmaster. He liked being a knight and living at Hol ylough, especial y now that he knew his father had loved him. Yet this curse was part of him, who he was.

He had no other choice.

Devlin removed his damp clothes and dressed in a fresh tunic and hose. His uncle Hugh, the current Houndmaster, believed it to be a great honour and had prepared him wel over the years.

Devlin’s true wish was to live out his years in relative peace at Hol ylough.

Devlin came from behind the tapestry. In the far corner, Branna stood at the stone sil of an arched window. She reached to touch the crimson rabbit atop a board game drawn with a cross.

Devlin’s grip on her wrist stopped her.

“I . . . ah . . . I only wished to brush off the dirt. ’Tis evident no one has played in many years.”

“This was my father’s game. We played after evening meals. I’ve not played since his death.” Branna caressed his hand stil fastened upon her wrist.

“Forgive me, my lord. I meant no disrespect to Tiarna. I loved him as if he were my own father.

Would you be wil ing to play in his memory?”

Devlin felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He hadn’t been able to play the game for nearly fifteen years, yet this slip of a woman offered him a reason to put it to rights.

Her fingers continued to caress up his arm, her touch sending ripples of sensation through his body. “I’l teach you what I know of the game.”

Emotions warred through Devlin, his battle instincts stirring. He
would not
grow close to her. His destiny lay with the Hel hounds. Only he had not expected such comfort on his last night as a mortal man.

Lady Branna had given him a wondrous gift – the truth about his father. Devlin had spent too many years blaming himself for driving his father away. His uncle always at his side, insisting Devlin’s father could not bear to look upon the son who reminded him of the beloved wife who died bringing Devlin into the world. He would deal with his uncle soon.

He released her wrist and picked up the board. “Be cautious of what you ask, my lady. We shal play. But understand there is a cost for winning and losing. Let us sit by the fire.” He set the board on the carpet and grabbed two pil ows from the bed, tossing them next to the game. He waited until she’d taken position on the other pil ow.

“Since you’re so taken with the hare, ’tis yours to play. I’l play the fifteen hounds. Place your hare in the middle of the board. I’l place my hounds along one side of the board, like so.” Devlin arranged his pieces in a line.

“The point of the game is for you to capture as many of my hounds as possible before they can surround the hare so it is trapped and cannot move. The hounds and hare can move to any empty space, including a diagonal move. The hare can jump over the hounds, capturing them. The hounds cannot jump. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Branna said. “Before we start, I wish to make a wager.” Devlin raised his brows. “A wager? I am intrigued. What should we wager?”

“If I am victorious, you wil help find the chalice.”

“You think I know under which rock it lies?” Devlin watched her toy with a wooden hound.

“You are master of Hol ylough, every rock is of concern to you.” Branna laughed and then turned serious. “My aunt insists your family is evil.”

“Mayhap your aunt is right.”

“I do not believe you are evil nor was your father. I do believe there is much more to you than you say.”

An explosion of hunger and need fired inside him. She might be in more danger than she realized. “Is this your heart’s desire?”

“Aye.”

She hesitated and then asked, “What is
your
heart’s desire?” Devlin felt himself pul ed to reveal more than was wise. This little minx could easily set upon his heart with her quick mind and innocent words.

Devlin kept his face neutral and his words vague. “I imagine ’tis the same as yours, to right the wrong cast upon us.” Then he asked, “If you fail to win, what have you to lose?”

“I have not much to give.”

The beat of forbidden desire, strong, thick and unrelenting hammered within. She had more than she knew.

“If I win, I shal require a melody from your sweet lips.”

“A song?”

“Aye, a song of your choosing. You have a melodious voice and I wish to hear it. Do you accept?”

“Aye, I’l accept those terms as a wager.”

Devlin remembered the soft caress of her hand and the taste of her tears. “It’s traditional to hal mark such a wager with a clasping of hands.”

Branna stretched her arm out to him. Devlin took her smal hand in his, and squeezed lightly.

When she would have pul ed back, he held fast.

A primal force inside him demanded more. Giving in to the need, he pul ed her to him, until she leaned into his arms, bracing her other hand on his chest.

Anticipation thickened the air in his lungs. He whispered, “I’m not a traditional man. I wish to mark
our
wager with a kiss.”

Devlin released her hand and cupped his palm around the nape of her neck, drawing her face to his. Slowly, lazily, never breaking eye contact, he lowered his mouth and captured her lips. He wasn’t prepared for the sweet taste of her, silky and warm. Instead of pul ing away like he’d planned, he wanted more and teased her mouth with his tongue, gaining entrance.

The soft sound of her sigh whispered through him with her need and hunger. Starving, he stroked deeper into her open mouth.

Her touch on his chest burned into him and he had to steel himself not to ravish her, no matter how badly he wanted her. That would not accomplish his goal.

Sanity returned slowly and Devlin reluctantly released her lips. He eased her limp body off his and took a deep breath.

“Now
I’m ready to play.”

Branna stared at him with aroused, heavy-lidded eyes. “Play?” Devlin chuckled, pleased she was as affected by the kiss as he. “Yes,
muirnin.
We were about to play a game of Hounds and Hare.”

They played the game until the fire burned low, casting shadows and radiant warmth throughout the room. Each move Devlin made with his hounds was sufficiently countered by a deft move by Branna’s hare. She expertly played the game, capturing more than enough of his hounds.

“I believe, my lord, I have captured numerous hounds so they can no longer trap my hare. Hence I win.”

Devlin was pleased with her prowess. “So it would seem. On the morrow, before I return you home, we wil search for your chalice.”

Branna yawned, her eyelids drooping. “I do not wish to appear rude, but ’tis sleep I now need.”

“I wasn’t expecting guests this night. I have no other chambers readied. Please slumber comfortably in my bed and I shal take up residence by the fire.” She sat on the enormous bed, the sight of her there pleasing him. “Thank you for your kindness.

My aunt was wrong. You are not the evil incarnate.”

Devlin knew otherwise. “Sweet dreams,
muirnin
.”

Branna blew out the candle by the bedside and untied the bed curtains, al owing them to drape around the bed, cocooning her in privacy. Not wanting to soil Devlin’s shirt, she slipped out of its comfort and folded it neatly, then placed it at the foot of the bed. She slipped between the coolness of the sheets in only her chemise. Although Lord MacKenna had shown her every courtesy, she couldn’t be too careful with her modesty.

Branna brushed a finger over her lips. Except for that kiss. His kiss had been neither courteous nor modest, but had fired in her wonderful sensations she’d never before experienced. Enough so that she wanted more.

Four

Devlin awoke to red embers glowing in the fire, and silence. Only it was not silence that had woken him. He listened intently, his hand on his sword. Soft whimpers came from his bed.
Branna.

He rose naked from the floor and padded to her side, throwing the bedclothes about his shoulders. She thrashed beneath the fur covering. He felt her forehead, worried she may have caught cold in the rain. Her skin was damp, yet not feverish. A gasp escaped her lips.

Branna bolted upright and screamed, the sound chil ing in the predawn dark. Devlin dropped the scrunched coverlet in his hand and grabbed her shoulders.

“Wake up,
muirnin.
’Tis a bad dream. You’re safe.”

“The dogs!”

She thrashed, trying to get out of the bed, her eyes wide and hair wild about her face. Devlin shook her but couldn’t wake her from the clawing tentacles of the nightmare.

In desperation, he pul ed her to his chest and held her tight.

“Shush, Little Raven.” He stroked her hair and crooned into her ear, drawing out the night terrors. “The dogs are gone. They can’t hurt you here.”

She relaxed, some of the tension leaving her body. He sat on the bed and pul ed her closer, on to his lap.