Claiming Her (Renegades & Outlaws) (40 page)

Ré and Cormac had a fairly good idea of the case Aodh was currently preparing in his mind. They watched him close his eyes, take a deep breath, and get off his horse.

“Fine.” He strode to Katarina’s horse, put his hands on her hips, and swung her to the ground. “What, is he twenty years older than you?”

“Closer to fifteen. He is quite virile,” she added absently, tugging at her gown.

Aodh’s finger crooked under her chin and tipped it up. “Quite, is it?”

She shook her head. “Not very. Not at all.”

“We’ll talk more about this later.”

She smiled and let him adjust her hood. “There is nothing to talk about.”

A figure appeared on the highest step of the castle, in front of an arched, carved oak door.
 

“That is he,” she murmured. “The O’Fail.”

Tall, long-haired, neatly bearded, and expensively booted, wearing a deeply dyed cape that was tossed off to the side, revealing armor and a sword and two pistols, he was the epitome of a marcher lord. Precisely the man you hoped to lure into an alliance. If he could be lured.

They began the trek up the stairs. Aodh lifted Katarina’s hand and guided her up, then passed her on ahead of him when the stairway narrowed. Tension emanated out of him like sound.
 

“Katarina,” The O’Fail welcomed her as she joined him on the top step, his Irish accent so thick it always took a moment to acclimate. She took the hand he held out and began to curtsey, but he lifted her back to her feet and, leaning forward, kissed her cheek.

She could almost feel Aodh behind her starting to ignite.

The O’Fail must have felt it too, for he moved his gaze to Aodh as he stepped onto the landing too. For a moment, the two Irish warlords looked at each other, The O’Fail over a decade older, but still in his prime. Behind Aodh trailed a row of retainers, clad in armor and Rardove colors.

“Some laid wagers you’d never return to Ireland,” The O’Fail said quietly. “That you were content to be cosseted by a queen instead of settling for an Irish kingdom.”

Aodh smiled, but it was cold. “’Tis true, I do not settle. Unlike some.”

The O’Fail’s hooded eyes narrowed. “Your meaning?”

“You well know my meaning. An oath is hard work. Some are content to settle for scraps, for whatever they are given by others.”

Katarina felt the beginning of true fear.

But she could do little other than step between them and wave a pistol about, and as it had not yet come to blows, that seemed a bit excessive. Barring blows, or perhaps including them, these two would simply have to work the matter out.
 

Up on the walls, the O’Fail soldiers stood, bows aimed at the armed band standing on the castle steps.
 

The O’Fail considered Aodh. “What you speak of, Con, was a long time ago. Your father and grandfather joined a rebellion that was not theirs, when they were not ready. Rash and reckless, as ever they were.”
 

“Brave,” said Aodh, his voice granite hard.

“Aye, very. Enough to put the rest of us to shame,” he said, and reached for Aodh’s wrist.
 

Aodh grasped The O’Fail’s in return.
 

“As were you, Con,” he said, gripping Aodh’s arm tight. “I saw you on the field that day. Fourteen-year-old berserker, you were. We were sore sad when you went to England, and the Red Queen took you.”

“I am back now.”
 

“I am glad.” The O’Fail drew Aodh forward into a hard, swift embrace. “If it interests you, I laid my money on you and Ireland,” he said when his mouth was by Aodh’s ear. “I knew ’twas but a matter of time before you came home again.”

He clapped Aodh on the back twice, then released him. “Your father and grandfather had high hopes for you, which you seem to have realized.” His gaze grazed the tattoos visible on Aodh’s neck before it swung back to Katarina. “Although I admit to being surprised the lady acceded so readily.”

She sniffed. “Firstly, I was tricked.”

“And secondly?”
 

She sniffed again. “I was convinced by various…persuasions.”

Amusement glinted in The O’Fail’s eye as he took her hand and lifted it to his mouth. “As I once tried, aye?”

“Not precisely,” she murmured as he bent to kiss her hand. Over the top of his head, Katarina met Aodh’s glance with a silent, warning command:
Stay
. “As I recall, my lord, in the end, ’twas you who declined the union.”

“I declined a union with the Queen of England,” he replied, straightening. “Only a madman would decline a union with you, my lady.”

She smiled. “You received my thanks for the wood?”

The O’Fail’s smile grew broader. His face was starkly handsome, and the gray strands in his beard and the braid dangling by his face, only added to the sense you were in the presence of a mighty, solid presence, like an oak tree, or a storm. “A single barrel of Rardove whisky far exceeds the value of a few planks of wood, my lady.”

“Those planks have trebled in value of late, my lord, as they will help rebuild the drawbridge.”
 

He turned back to Aodh. “Come inside. There is freshly brewed ale, and we’ve just slaughtered a hog.” He leaned to the side and murmured to Aodh as they stepped inside. “Your lady is quite fond of bacon.”

*

INSIDE, THE FEAST was laid and the fires roared, and Aodh’s men were entertained in rich fashion by musicians and dancers.

When the meal was over, the revelries pressed on. Katarina sat with The O’Fail, while Aodh stood with a group of men at the end of the dais table, examining weapons.

“You are happy, Katarina?” The O’Fail asked as another group of dancers moved to the center of the hall. “Pleased with the Hound?”

“I am, my lord. Happy and pleased. It has been a long time since I have been either.”

“Good. Your happiness matters to me.”

“As your goodwill matters to me, my lord. I have always admired you.”

“And I, you. A woman alone, on the edge of the world, holding her own? ’Tis enough to make a queen proud.”

“Perhaps.” Katarina watched Aodh with the soldiers and warriors of both clans. The group formed a loose, relaxed circle, rumps on tables, boots on benches, as they tried out each other’s swords, but Aodh was clearly at the group’s center. A natural-born commander. “I am not certain Elizabeth feels that way still.”

The O’Fail’s gaze swung to her. “How long do you have before she arrives?”

“Not long now.”

 
“Are you prepared?”

“There we come to the matter at hand.”

He picked up a mug. “I knew you are here for a reason. What would you have from me?”

“What can you give?”

The O’Fail nodded to himself a moment, then his gaze slid to Aodh, who was smiling as he clapped one man on the back, and the group erupted into laughter over some jest. “Rardove is an anomaly, Katarina. It has been great under great masters, and under poor ones. It has been great under English rule and under Irish rule as well.” Somehow, through all the years, Rardove has never faltered or fallen into the mists. It is as if it’s…charmed. There are rumors of dyes. Legendary ones. Magical ones.” His gaze fell on Aodh and his tattoos. “Whatever the reason, though, Rardove has stood the test of time. But then, no royal army has ever marched directly for it. In such an event, it might finally fall. Be broken. Something might be destroyed.”

“It might at that, my lord.”

“I do not think Ireland can stand the strain of any more of its magic being broken. For that, I can give much.” He turned to her. “For the son of the Hound, I can give even more.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

THE RUMOR OF WAR WAS everywhere as they rode back to Rardove. Towns were locked up tight. Entire villages had fled. The land had a waiting, watchful feel. And all around them, they detected the presence of riders, in the woods on either side, flanking them.

“They are The O’Fail’s,” Katarina explained quietly. Up and down the line, Aodh’s men cast suspicious, wary glances into the trees. “We are under his protection now, while we are on his lands.” She shrugged. “He is protecting us.”

“It’s unnervin’, that’s what it is,” Cormac muttered, peering mistrustfully into the dark woods that marched some fifty paces off on either side.

But Katarina felt safe. So odd, after all the years she’d lived here, closeted inside the thick stone walls, always faintly afraid, now, in the company of a rebel, riding on the open hills, she felt safe.

 
They entered Rardove’s bustling bailey as evening fell. Abuzz with villagers and town folk and castle folk and even more Irish than when they had left, it was a faintly joyous mob scene as they rode through the gates. Wagons and cartloads and bushels of foodstuffs were being brought in from the surrounding countryside, and riders were constantly coming and going, bearing messages and burdens. Rardove had the air of celebration, of fête or fair, not preparation for a battle. Their hopes were high.

Because Aodh’s were.

 
They had barely removed their hoods and were standing in front of the hearth, shaking mist off their cloaks. when a messenger arrived, pushing through the bustle with a missive for Katarina.
 

 
“From whom?” she asked, surprised.

“The mistress of Carrickdon,” the messenger said with a bow. “Inquiring as to your health and the coming spring fair. She has sent a gift for you too, my lady.” He handed over a small package.

Aodh and she exchanged a silent glance. The soldiers’ gazes flitted from her to the package to Aodh. Then to her.

They did not yet, did not quite, trust her.

She extended the package to Aodh. He gave a curt nod and waved one of his men forward, who took it and tore it open.
 

It was a little bundle of lace, wrapped in linen, with a note from one Lady Carrickdon, which spoke of the coming spring fair, and suggesting that if Rardove had any wool fells, they would fetch a fair price.

Katarina had had a friendly correspondence for many years with Carrickdon’s mistress. She was older, widowed, and resided within the Pale, but she was of old English stock, very loyal, very dependable, and Katarina felt a small knot of discomfort in her throat, thinking of how the news of this rebellion would be perceived by the venerable old lady.

Aodh read the letter in its entirety twice, and one of his men examined the fat little bundle of lace skeptically, but as it was difficult to hide weapons in lace, everything was finally handed over to her.
 

 
Katarina sat at the dais table while the others settled down to drink and storytelling before the evening meal was served. She unfolded the lace across the table to examine it more closely, and went cold when she felt a thick lining along its edge.

She slid out a small, tightly folded scrap of parchment with a message written on it.

 
In mercy, We give you one chance to regain our goodwill: turn over the traitor. Impressing upon you the importance of this deed, we leave the means and methods to your discretion. If none should appear, on the second night after our army arrives, leave the back postern
gate open, and our captain will send in a man.

Burn this missive, and you shall not suffer the same fate.
 

Oh dear God, it was a terrible cycle,
everything a mirror of the past, winding its way back down to this moment.

She felt so cold, she began trembling. She
was
her father’s daughter. Her mother’s daughter. Branded a traitor in her sovereign’s eye, she now had one last chance to avoid a traitor’s death.
 

Turn her back on her Irish consort. Turn her back on Aodh.

In her secret heart, Katarina had long ago turned her back on her father and mother. Repudiated everything about her father and his overweening passion, his treason. Rejected utterly her mother’s rejection of her. She had no parents, only a queen.
 

She had promised the queen, and herself, that she would be different. She would be the loyal subject her mother and father had not been.