Wild Roses (16 page)

"You look pale, Rose. Do you want to dismount a
moment and rest?"

Startled that Duncan had fallen back to ride beside
her, Maire met his eyes. Her heart began to pound so fiercely that she scarce
could speak. It didn't help matters when his knee pressed against her legs,
Duncan's stallion bumping close to nip at her docile roan gelding. At once
Duncan gave his unruly mount a sharp tug on the reins.

"God's teeth—easy, now. Easy!"

Grateful for the distraction as Duncan settled his
horse, Maire swallowed hard and told herself for what seemed the hundredth time
that glimpsing a man at his bath was no reason to become so unsettled whenever
he spoke to her. But her face was burning, too, and she could only wonder what
Duncan must think to see her not so much pale anymore as blushing to her roots.

"I-I'm fine . . . truly," she somehow
managed,
true enough Duncan was now studying her intently.
"There's no need to stop. I . . . I was only thinking of my clansmen—that
they might be in Dublin and . . . and how they must have worried for me. You're
so kind to take me there, Lord FitzWilliam."

She didn't know how he might answer, but she hadn't
expected the frown that came over his handsome face as if her words had
displeased him. She was as startled when he suddenly kicked his stallion
forward and retook his place ahead of her, leaving her to stare in confusion at
his back.

A broad muscular back she hadn't been able to tear her
eyes from last night when she'd awoken with a start, not daring to move or
scarcely to breathe to see Duncan rise dripping and naked from the tub. Her
cheeks flaring with heat, she wondered again that the screen had been gone, his
body in the dying firelight so physically beautiful she had stared in
heart-stopping awe as he toweled himself dry, his powerful muscles flexing . .
.

Maire dropped her eyes and stared blindly at the reins
curled around her trembling fingers, that she would have watched him so
blatantly, so wantonly, shocking her as much today as the sight that had met
her when he turned abruptly from the fire. She knew little of men, but she
wasn't so raw an innocent that she hadn't recognized his arousal— Saints help
her!

Maire pressed a hand to her burning face. How could she
be thinking of such things when an attack by her clansmen might be only moments
away? Almost dazedly she saw that the ancient oaks had become thicker, the
leaves overhead so green and dense that it seemed to have grown darker, too,
only a thin shaft of sunlight here and there breaking through.

And the tension among Duncan and his men had
heightened—she could feel it. She noticed that Duncan's right hand had moved to
the hilt of his sword, while the other held fast to the reins. As a seasoned
fighter, had he sensed something she had missed . . . a movement in the
distance? The warning snap of a branch? Or was it gut instinct ruling him?

Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, to think that blood might soon
be spilled, that men might die, Norman and Irish. Truly it was too much for her
to bear. There had to be another way, surely! If Triona were here in her place,
what would she do?

Praying for even a trace of her sister-in-law's
brazenness and courage to conquer any situation, Maire glanced desperately
around her. The air had grown damp and heavy and she smelled it then, the
undeniable muskiness of a bog borne on a westerly breeze. But how far away . .
. ?

An outcropping of rocks ahead suddenly caught Maire's
eye, halfway up a rise, and a plan began to form in her mind. It could work; it
had to work! If Ronan and his men were watching them from some hidden point
even now, they would see her ride away and spare themselves an attack, surely.
Ronan was not one to risk his clansmen's lives heedlessly, always taking the
cautious path. Aye, and even if they weren't anywhere near, even if they were
searching for her miles away, she would finally be free if her plan succeeded to
ride home to Glenmalure.

Her gaze flew to Duncan. Maire was stunned by the
strange emotion that struck her, regret mixed with something she couldn't name.
But with the outcropping fast approaching, she had no time to dwell on anything
save for finding the bog as soon as she could get past the rocks. Her
nervousness so great that she feared she might somehow give herself
away,
Maire pulled up on the reins and slowed the gelding to
a stop.

At once Duncan twisted in his saddle, concern lining
his face as he wheeled his stallion around and came to her side.

"Rose . . . ?"

"Forgive me, Lord FitzWilliam, but if we could
rest . . . only for a moment. I am tired and—and if I could . . ." Her
blush in earnest, Maire hoped Duncan would understand as she shifted
uncomfortably upon the sidesaddle. To her dismay, he only stared at her, a
frown deepening.

"Baron, I believe she must attend to
herself,"
came
Reginald Montfort's gruff voice,
the older knight drawing his mount alongside Duncan's. "Her needs—"

"Dammit, man, I know what she meant!"

Maire had started at Duncan's voice, which held
annoyance as well as a trace of chagrin. As he glanced around them, she quickly
rushed on.

"If I may, Lord FitzWilliam, those rocks up there.
I need a few moments, no more. It's not so far—"

"Go on, then. We'll wait for you here."

Unspeakable relief filling her at his words, Maire
could see that he wasn't pleased by the delay at such a densely wooded spot but
she didn't linger to hear him change his mind. Flicking the reins, she guided
the gelding up the slope, and didn't dare to look back either. She knew Duncan
was watching her as the clatter of armor and restless horses spurred her on.

Within moments she had reached the rocks, her relief
again so sharp that the limestone outcropping loomed well above her head that
she'd begun to tremble. But she told herself firmly that Triona wouldn't be
shaking in fear if she were in Maire's place. Triona would boldly forge onward,
and Maire did so too, pausing only briefly behind the moss-covered rocks to
catch her breath before she let go with a piercing scream and dug her heels
into the gelding's sides.

"Oh, no! Saints help me!"

She shot out from behind the rocks as if her mount had
been suddenly spooked, Maire still crying out in terror while she veered the
gelding up and over the rise. She was filled with remembered fright when she
heard men shouting far below her and the crashing of horses through the woods,
Duncan's voice rising above the rest in a vehement curse that made her kick the
gelding into a reckless gallop down the slope.

Swiping the hair from her face, she rode for her life,
so grateful Triona had spent long hours teaching her how to handle a horse that
she could have wept. But she was too busy screaming and wending the
now-terrified gelding through the trees, the musty smell of a bog growing
sharper.

Her lungs burning, Maire gave no heed to thick woods
that had grown so dark she might have sworn it was dusk, and headed straight
for a hazy wall of sunlight not far in the distance. She could no longer hear
any men's voices. The gelding's frantic hooves pounded in her ears, but she
knew her pursuers were riding hard to catch up with her, and she abruptly
ceased her screams.

Hopefully they wouldn't know which direction she had
gone
now,
and even if they did . . .

Maire's plan burning in her mind, she came upon the bog
so suddenly, bursting through the trees into what appeared a low-lying
clearing, that she was nearly pitched from the sidesaddle when she yanked hard
on the reins and the gelding reared in fright. A breathless prayer on her lips
as his hooves came down only inches from the treacherous
quagmire,
she snatched wildly at her cloak and flung it onto the brown decaying matter
that stank so foully her eyes stung.

She thought only fleetingly of Duncan's face once he
came upon her cloak, deciding with an undeniable pang that it was better he
think she and the gelding had drowned in the bog than that he still might find
her. The sound of men roaring her name carrying through the trees, she kicked
the gelding into motion and skirted along the spongy bank, deciding it was best
to hide and set out again once Duncan and his men had retreated.

She saw a huge gnarled oak and rode toward it, doubting
that her exhausted horse could go much farther without a brief rest even if she
wanted to. And she needed nothing more than to snatch her breath—

"By the blood of God, woman, where . . ."

Maire had barely reached the oak's concealing shadow to
dismount shakily as Duncan burst from the dense trees almost as she had, his
vehement roar fading into stunned silence while his stallion snorted and reared
in the air. She could tell from his stricken expression that he had spied her
cloak, and she watched in disbelief as he vaulted from his heaving horse and
plunged into the bog.

Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, was the man mad? Didn't he know
that such quagmires could trap a hapless soul within its depths before a cry of
help could even be sounded? And he wore heavy armor! Horror gripping her, she
saw him grab her cloak and then he sank from sight, leaving nothing but heaving
brown muck to mark where he had gone under.

"Saints help him . . . no."

In a daze Maire felt herself move, her hands shaking so
badly she feared she wouldn't be able to haul herself into the sidesaddle yet
somehow she did, then kicked the lathered gelding into a hard gallop back along
the bank. All the while she kept her eyes riveted to the spot where Duncan had
disappeared—

She gasped as his head suddenly emerged from the bog,
his arms thrashing to catch a hold, any hold. But there was none, the
water-laden peat giving way beneath his fingers, while Maire rode as she had
never done before.

She didn't think, didn't heed the shouts of approaching
men as she nearly fell in her haste to
dismount
and
struggled her way over too-soft ground to reach the agitated stallion. He
almost shied from her but she firmly caught his bridle, so grateful that Triona
had taught her to be unafraid of horses.

"Duncan! Duncan, catch the reins!"

Pitching them over the steed's head, Maire flung the
reins onto the churning muck as Duncan lunged to reach them. Yet the bog seemed
determined to thwart him, and his hands caught only air, the stinking stuff
drawing him farther into its depths with his every movement.

"Again, woman! Throw them again!"

She did frantically, stepping so close to the edge that
she felt the soggy ground threaten to give way beneath her. She'd never known
such relief when Duncan's outstretched hand closed in a tight fist around the reins,
his stallion tossing its head and whinnying shrilly as Maire grabbed the bridle
and pushed against him to make him walk backward.

"Aye, boy, that's it," she urged him in a
voice gone hoarse from the strain, tears blinding her eyes. "Keep going .
. . aye, please, please, you must keep going . . ."

Hearing a labored intake of breath, Maire glanced
behind her to see Duncan's face wracked with effort as he fought to haul
himself up and over the crumbling bank. She pulled all the more desperately on
the bridle until the stallion had dragged Duncan to solid ground. Overcome by
emotion as much as exhaustion, she sank to her knees and crawled to him even as
he rolled onto his back, his chest heaving, every inch of him soaking wet and
covered in muck.

"Duncan—"

"God's teeth, woman!"

Maire gasped as Duncan pulled her into his arms so
fiercely that she fell atop him, staring into his stricken eyes.

Chapter 15

"I thought you had drowned . . . like Gisele. Your
cloak—"

Duncan didn't finish, his voice as ravaged, Maire never
having known such a lump in her throat as he drew his thumb across her cheek,
coming away wet with her tears. She couldn't speak, yet she didn't know what
she would have said to him first. She was just so grateful that he was safe.
She would never have forgiven herself—

"Lord FitzWilliam!"

She stiffened, more in stunned embarrassment to be
sprawled so intimately atop Duncan as Reginald Montfort and two other knights
sharply reined in their horses and dismounted at a near run. Yet Duncan didn't
release her even as more riders came thundering through the woods while shouts
went up that they had been found, his arms tightening around her.

"You are well? Not hurt?"

"No . . . no, not hurt." Knowing she must
summon a wealth of lies to explain what had happened, Maire was relieved to be
spared if only for a few moments as Reginald noisily cleared his throat.

"Forgive me, Baron . . . it looked as if you
needed help but, uh . . . God's breath, shall we wait for you elsewhere—"

"Assemble the men, Montfort."

It was near painful to speak, Duncan's lungs still
burning from exertion, yet that wasn't the full reason his throat was so tight.
He paid little heed as his knights hastily retreated through the trees, and
fixed his eyes once more upon Rose.

Her face had grown bright pink at Reginald Montfort's
words, and she'd stiffened further in his arms, but Duncan wasn't ready to
release her. He didn't want to release her. By the blood of God, just to know
she was alive and unharmed when he had feared her . . .

His throat clenching all the tighter, Duncan saw
suddenly in his mind's eye another cloak, not blue but yellow gold, floating on
the murky surface of a pond. A pond where Gisele had stolen early one morning
from her parents' manor to meet him, except she had slipped-

"L-Lord FitzWilliam . . . ?"

Duncan met soft gray eyes, not the stunning green that
had haunted him for so long, and was struck that he could have felt so
intensely for this woman what he had known for Gisele that terrible day. Yet he
had, he couldn't deny it, struck as much that Rose had returned to using his
title which all too keenly made him want to hear his Christian name upon her
lips again.