Soon.
It would happen soon now, whatever greeting Gilpatrick's men intended to give
to him.
The
thought had barely formed in his head when a blur of shadow catapulted down on
Aidan from the overhanging branch of a tree, a blood-chilling Gaelic war cry
cleaving the silence of night like a broadsword of old.
Something
hard slammed into him, driving him from his stallion's back as the horse reared
and plunged in terror.
Pain
radiated through Aidan's shoulder as he crashed to the turf, his attacker
landing atop him. The rebel, his face masked, drove his fist into Aidan's jaw,
snapping his head back until stars exploded before his eyes.
He
shook himself, trying to regain his bearings through the swirling darkness of
night and the sick, dizzy circlings inside his head. With an oath he rolled the
guard over, wrestling the bastard with all the pent-up fury that had been
boiling inside him since he'd first learned his daughter was in danger.
But
before he could land his first punch, another hand grabbed his hair from
behind, yanking his head back so savagely his neck seemed likely to snap, and
the blade of a knife snaked around until that silvery kiss of death was pressed
against his throat.
"I
wouldn't be rearrangin' anybody's face, lest you want us to carve up yours, ye
Kane bastard," a muffled voice warned from behind a crude mask of sacking.
"Though nothin' would give me greater pleasure, I vow."
"I
have no quarrel with you. My business is with Gilpatrick."
The
brigand chuckled, low. "The master is real particular about who he
conducts business with. And from past experience, I doubt he'd be fool enough
to do so with a thievin' traitor who bears the name Kane. Last time a Kane
entertained a Gilpatrick, Rathcannon fell into your bastard hands, and Donal's
great-grandda and uncles decorated an English gallows."
Aidan's
jaw knotted as the knife bit deeper. "Can't you recall the rest of the
tale? His brothers, his father—their fates?" Despite his peril, Aidan's
stomach turned at the memory of his own father regaling him with pride about
his grandsire's quest to complete the destruction of the once-noble Catholic
lords, the Gilpatricks. How Crevan Kane had made it his personal quest to
obliterate the family that had held prior claim to Rathcannon, sparing no
one—even cutting the tiniest Gilpatrick heir from his mother's womb.
Aidan
gritted his teeth, wondering if he was baiting this rebel into slitting his
throat, daring him to.
"You
bastard." The man's voice was silky with hate. The other rogue climbed to
his feet, while Aidan was still on his knees, helpless. The Irishman kicked him
full in the ribs.
Agony
seared him, his chest seeming to cave in, his lungs screaming for air. But it
was a miracle the other assailant had kept the knife from gouging deep. Aidan
fought to stay conscious, to squeeze the words from his strangled throat.
"You
want me dead—all of you. I full intend to give your leader a chance to show how
courageous he is when pitted against a Kane."
"What
the devil?"
"I
come to issue a challenge to Donal Gilpatrick."
"He's
run mad," the other man said. "We should just kill him and serve him
up before Donal like a slaughtered sheep."
"What?"
Aidan jeered in a desperate gambit for his life. "You fear your leader
hasn't the mettle to meet me man to man? It's no wonder. The world over knows
that any man with a drop of English blood in his veins can crush a lowly
Irishman. I suppose your fear is understandable."
"Lord
Donal could carve the meat from your bones an inch at a time, if he'd a mind
to," the man welding the knife declared.
"I
dare him to try. No, I'll do better than that. I'll wager him a thousand pounds
I can best him. Of course, if Gilpatrick is a coward..." He let the word
hang between them, goading, chafing, knowing his very survival dangled in the
balance. An eternity seemed to pass in the seconds before the man who held the
knife cursed.
"We'll
take ye up to Gilpatrick, Kane, and cheer when he spills your life blood into
the dirt. Tully, bind the bastard's hands."
The
man who had kicked him in the gut jerked Aidan's arms behind his back, nearly
wrenching them from the sockets as he tied them with a strip of leather. Aidan
bit back a groan at the pressure against his throbbing shoulder as the two men
half dragged, half shoved him the rest of the way up the hill.
He
heard the rise and fall of voices, then silence as his two captors shoved him
from the shadows into the ring of torchlight. Aidan stumbled, going down on one
knee. He gritted his teeth against the pain and levered himself upright. Steel
poured into his spine as his gaze searched the circle of faces until he found
that of his enemy. Gilpatrick's scar gleamed in a twisted rope down the side of
his face, his eyelid pulled down at a gruesome angle beneath the clear blue of
his left eye.
Aidan
remembered how smooth that same face had been the first time he'd seen it:
grinning at him in pure devilment as he stole an apple from Squire Donbea's
orchard, despite the fact that the squire kept a fractious bull fenced therein.
Aidan remembered the boy running, barely reaching the fence. He was certain
Gilpatrick would have been skewered by one of the bull's horns if Aidan hadn't
reached over the fence and yanked the Irish lad away from those tossing points.
A
dozen wild adventures had followed, the two boys never knowing each other by
any name other than Donal and Aidan, never knowing they were sworn enemies,
until the day Aidan's father had discovered them together.
"What
the hell?" Gilpatrick demanded, his overly thin body fairly radiating fury
and surprise.
"He
was ridin' up, bold as ye please," the knife wielder said. "Said he'd
come searchin' to offer you a challenge."
Gilpatrick's
eyes shimmered in the torchlight. "A challenge, Kane?"
"Man
to man, Gilpatrick. You and me. With your guard dogs here under orders not to
interfere."
The
Irishman stared at him with the air of a king. "To what would I owe this
unexpected pleasure? There must be a reason you've decided to confront me after
all this time."
"You
must have hungered to repay me for that little decoration carved on your cheek.
I come to grant you your heart's desire. To strike a wager with you."
"You
think I would make a wager with a cur like you? To do that, I'd have to trust a
Kane to keep his word. We Gilpatricks have far too long a memory to make such a
mistake again. The last time we believed in what your kinsmen told us, they
barred nearly our whole family within a castle hall and slaughtered them down
to the last babe."
Aidan's
mouth tightened. "My ancestors were hell-spawned bastards, is that it?
Making war on women and children? But what of you, Gilpatrick? That false honor
you wear like a mantle over your rags?"
"What
the divil are you implying, Kane?"
"I'm
not implying anything. I'm accusing you, straight out, of being a coward, the
worst kind of villain. And when we duel, if I get my blade against your throat,
your forfeit will be to answer whatever questions I choose to put to you."
"Questions
about what?"
"About
the happenings at Rathcannon last night. About animals who put pistols into the
faces of innocent girls. But then, you know all about that, Gilpatrick, don't
you?"
Gilpatrick
paled, a flicker of emotion tightening his mouth. "About terrorized
children? Murderers with pistols stalking the innocent? I'm acquainted well
enough with those." Gilpatrick's fist knotted. "Am I to assume that
whoever put the pistol into your daughter's face did not pull the
trigger?" The words were cool, so cool Aidan might have been deceived, had
it not been for the flame eating inside his adversary's eyes.
"Cassandra
is safe. But the mystery of her attackers has yet to be solved. They left no
trace except a pistol ball in one of my footmen's legs. That, and two letters,
secretly tucked in my wife's bedchamber."
Gilpatrick
regarded him with steely, cold eyes. "Are you quite certain they were not
from the previous Lady Kane's former lovers? I would imagine she had to keep up
the devil of a lot of correspondence."
Aidan
jerked against his captors' arms, a savage twist to his mouth. "You know
damn well they were sent to Norah. You had them smuggled in to terrify
her."
"That
was never my intent. I merely wanted to warn the lady that she was straying
into the dragon's den."
"Then
you admit that you're responsible?"
"For
the notes? I admit that most readily, though how you discovered that truth is
most puzzling."
"It
doesn't matter how I discovered it. Let's just say that when my daughter is
threatened, I can be as ruthless as any man whose veins are filled with Kane
blood. Imagine my surprise when I discovered you were involved in the plot to
kidnap my daughter."
"And
that is what your... informant told you? That I had plotted this
kidnapping?"
"Who
else could it be? The hatred between our families is as old as these stones.
The note that said Cassandra was in danger was penned in your hand. You knew
the attack was going to happen before the men fell upon Cassandra. How could
you be privy to such an attack if you weren't neck deep in it?"
"How,
indeed? Surely, I couldn't be giving you a warning to keep your daughter safe.
Only the worst kind of fool would do that for his darkest enemy."
"Don't
bait me, Gilpatrick. You knew about the attack. You knew about the fact that a
bride was coming to Rathcannon. You knew even before I did."
"Perhaps
I have the second sight. Perhaps I can predict your future, Kane, since because
of you and your accursed family I have no future."
"What
the hell is your game, Gilpatrick?" Aidan raged, fury surging through him.
"To
see Ireland free." Simple words, quiet ones, but his face was filled with
a passion Aidan hadn't felt for anyone, anything, save his daughter, and now a
dark-eyed Englishwoman who loved him.
Gilpatrick's
mouth curved into a smile. "What is wrong, Kane? Feeling helpless? The
sensation chafes at a man, doesn't it? In time, it eats away at him until he's
half mad."
"Is
that what this is about, then? Driving me to madness? I offer you a quicker,
sweeter victory. Match swords, Gilpatrick, or pistols, unless you are a
coward."
Gilpatrick
laughed. "You think that you can bait me into fighting you by casting
slurs upon my honor? I don't give a damn about your opinion of me, Kane. I know
what I am. A patriot. An Irishman, down to my last drop of blood. Lord of these
lands in a way that you can never be. By right, Kane. By right. I don't have to
prove anything to you."
Rage
and something like envy bit into Aidan's chest as he was stricken by the
knowledge that this ragged outlaw spoke the truth. Gilpatrick would be able to
look his child square in the eyes, like the warrior king in a hero tale. He
would never have to fear the look of horror and revulsion Aidan was certain
would mar Cassandra's eyes when she discovered the truth about her father.
"Fight
me, Gilpatrick," Aidan raged, wishing to God he could grapple with more
insubstantial enemies as well. "Fight me, damn you."
"Teach
the Kane scum a lesson, me lor'," one of the masked rebels begged
Gilpatrick.
"Aye,
Donal! Show him what mettle true-born Irishmen are made of."
"Made
of?" Aidan spat the words. "You're made of madmen's dreams and wild
impossibilities, clinging to glory centuries old so fiercely you don't even
realize your throats are crushed beneath the muddy boots of your conquerors.
The men who have bound you like slaves in your own land." He sneered,
unadulterated mockery obscuring the desperation pulsing deeper inside him, as
he attempted to latch onto something, anything, that might goad the implacable
Gilpatrick to fight him. "No, you're all descended from kings and heroes,
aren't you? Down to the lowest rag-picker amongst you. In fact, I'd wager that
fool boy I saw you with that night a week past was a goddamn prince,
Gilpatrick. Spilling more royal Irish blood upon the soil when he fell beneath
superior English firepower."
As
Aidan's verbal thrust rammed home, he felt the same sickening reverberations
he'd experienced when, in the midst of a battle, his sword pierced flesh.
In
the torchlight, Gilpatrick's features turned white, the men encircling him
snarling in horror and outrage.
"Cut
Kane free." The rebel leader's voice was cold and deadly.
One
of Aidan's captors slid the knife blade between his hands, slicing the thong
none too gently. Aidan winced at the burning cut it left in his skin, but then
he felt nothing but the surge of blood back into his numb fingers, the searing
path of pain that set his hands afire.
He
curled his fingers into fists, flexing and releasing them in an effort to work
some suppleness back into them, but they were awkward and clumsy feeling, as if
they weren't firmly knitted to his wrists.