Irish Moon (14 page)

Ashlon watched her move about, straightening,
directing as she spoke.

“Come morning, I will count you as well and
free to go as you will.” With a flutter, she met his gaze. “I’ve
mapped the area as best as I could. If you follow north and then
the line of forest, you may reach Tir Conaill on foot in reasonable
time. All roads meet where you will be welcomed.”

Ashlon’s chest pinched. “’Tis not that I am
ungrateful but, I must ask m’lady, why you have aided me so
well?”

She stared at him, her eyes went to his mouth
then tore away. As though looking through him, she said, “Do not
speak of these past days to any man if you wish to live.”

He could see the refusal, did not need words
to understand that she would not explain herself. And it made him
all the more intrigued.

She handed him a square piece of hide, the
map she referred to inked onto it. “I must go.”

She rushed past him and he followed, grasping
her hand as she passed. He held her hand in his. Her gaze fell to
it. He could see the fast rise and fall of her hard breathing.
“What is your name? Where--how may I repay your kindnesses?” Her
hand was small and soft in his.

“You may repay them with your silence, good
sir.” She pulled her hand from his and left, her eyes on the ground
but her chin high.

* * * *

Breanne cursed the man. His questions and
doubts had stolen precious minutes from her and now she was sure to
be missed. More than missed. Caught. And not a single equitable
explanation came to her panicked mind while she pushed her mare to
the limits.

The horse ran hard and fast, Breanne sitting
low and tight in her saddle. Both breathed loud.

He’d been dressed and aglow with better
health and the sight of it had knocked her breath out of her. The
innocence of sleep she’d witnessed was now hard to recall, replaced
by the image of a warrior standing fierce and ready.

And now she was free of the encumbrance.
Those embattled green eyes would not beckon to her again. She
slowed to a canter only when the keep and stables reached view.
Coming in slow and at the rear proved successful. She dismounted in
the inner bailey and neared the kitchen entrance.

Danny waited there whistling and twiddling
his fingers, thumbs jabbed into his tunic. He was the worst looking
emissary she could imagine and wanted to kiss every last freckle on
his face for it.

“Any inquiries, my lord?” Breanne said with a
formal bow.

“Three m’lady,” Danny said. “The cat Finn
asks where you’ve gone off to, the Lady Ula requests you filch a
sweet scone for your trusted agent, and Quinlan Blake inquired
thirdly.”

“Finn is speaking now, is he?” she asked,
only to ascertain if his reference was in fact part of the
game.

Danny winked. “He circled thrice and that
always means ‘Where is my mistress?’”

“I see,” she said and ushered him inside with
her arm around his neck. She snaked her hand about a cooling scone,
nearly dropping it when its heat almost scalded her, as they walked
through.

The loud and crude goings on of preparation
provided them with an easy cover. Up the stairs, Breanne pressed
Danny for more detail.

“Your mum didn’t really ask where you were,
and I may have stretched the truth a bit on that scone part there.”
His mouth was half full with said scone. “Quinlan was the only
person who did any asking. I told him like most all else ‘round,
you’d be bathing for the evening meal. He punched me arm and left
to the stables.”

“The stables. Did he follow me then,
Danny?”

“If he did, it was on foot. Yours was the
only horse leaving or entering, far as I spied.”

“You’re the best,” she said and kissed his
head. “Now I’d better be looking bathed soon or we’ll both be
suspect.”

He smiled, plopped the remaining scone into
his mouth and hugged her waist. Down the stairs and out of sight,
he left her. Breanne stared after him. Had she ever been so
carefree or always guarded, even as a child? She shook her head and
enclosed herself in her chamber to ready.

As she sat before her mirror, unbraiding her
hair, Finn slunk out from beneath her bed. “Is he for the worms
yet?”

“If you mean the knight we found at
Heremon’s, no. He is well and of no consequence to either of us,”
she said.

“Fascinating. And when, pray tell did the
stranger become a knight?” Finn’s tail swished her skirt.

Breanne pursed her lips. Had she said knight?
Well, of course the vision of him lifting his sword had led her to
the assumption. And what could be wrong with that? Her belly
quivered over the memory of seeing him, standing in shadow and the
look on his face. He’d gone from intense to surprised so instantly.
And the surprise that lit his features sent a thrill through
her.

She felt powerful.

“I couldn’t say when as I hardly know the
gentleman. And is notwithstanding since he needs no further aid.”
Her voice sounded too pitchy by half as she spoke. Likely a
consequence of her haste. She simply needed to compose herself.

“You don’t need to thank me or tell me how
correct I was. Both are understood.” Finn licked a paw and rubbed
behind an ear. “Did he witness Heremon’s death?”

Breanne rolled her eyes at Finn. He’d been
ready to skin the man until she’d talked sense into him. And now he
spoke of the whole affair casually, unaffected. The cat’s nerve and
arrogance went beyond comprehension.

“He said he didn’t and I believe him. He
spoke as though Heremon lived, seemed put out by the tragedy.”

“Were there very many mourners? Was Heremon
well received?”

Was that why he’d disappeared then? To avoid
the burial and feast celebrating the renowned druid priest, the
scholar, philosopher, and sound judge? A shame, to be sure.
Attending the rite gave Breanne a feeling of finality and she came
to peace with the changes she faced. She’d decided that the loss
could only detract her to the extent she allowed.

“Aye. Nearly all attended. Part of me wished
he’d been sent off in the old way, into the sea, afire. But, Uncle
Patrick spoke beautifully, incorporated as much of the old as he
could. Clearly, he respected and knew Heremon well.”

“The method matters not. Gone is gone,
blessed or burned. Dead is dead.”

“I suppose so,” she said.

Breanne braided her hair, forgoing
interweaving the gold ornamentation. Her cloak had remarkably
protected her gown well enough that she needn’t change, saving her
additional time.

“Did you enjoy your binging and pillaging of
the forest? Find any fairy mounds?”

Finn blinked unperturbed by her sarcasm.
“Sidhes lost their worth to me long before your reign over my fate,
Breanne. And I doubt you hold any true interest in my
activities.”

Finished, Breanne faced him. “Finn, think it
true or not, I have always taken my duty to you seriously. And,
though I have no teacher, I have skill. I will free you.”

He looked unconvinced but what else could she
do or say? Empathy didn’t change the facts. Finn needed to return
to the Otherworld, released from a centuries old curse, or die as
he was, a mangy cat bullied by hounds and humans alike.

“If you like, we may try again soon.”

Finn’s ears pricked up. He tipped his chin to
her. “When?”

The single word held such emotion, Breanne’s
heart panged. “Perhaps tonight? We canno’ leave the grounds but, we
might try in here or—.”

“Agreed. Now, don’t forget my wine.” He leapt
to the bed, circled once and lay down. Breanne left him.

She walked through the corridor feeling
composed and in control. The shocks of the last few days’ events
were fading. With the knight gone, Niall distracted by Heremon’s
death and his wedding approaching, even facing a meal aside Quinlan
seemed manageable. Her life felt to be back on course.

She would focus on continuing her study
independently, choose a husband and take command of her
inheritance. As she walked to the main hall, she planned, and with
each step, she felt more sure, more solid and capable than
before.

She would not lie down and be trounced on by
life’s challenges. She joined Rose at the long table and piled her
trencher full.

“Might I join you Lady O’Donnell?”

Breanne looked up. Gannon O’Shannon’s gentle
blue eyes showed hope in them. She smiled warmly, ignored the catch
in her throat and nodded. Gannon. She’d nearly forgotten about
Gannon.

“Good evening to you, Master O’Shannon,” Rose
said. “How is the good lord treating you of late?”

“Verra well, thank you. And please, call me
Gannon. I’ve yet to feel grown enough for another title.”

Gannon sat across from them. He was charming
and easy on the eyes, she supposed, watching him glance from one
woman’s face to another as he knifed chunks of meat. And, he was a
scholar.

“I meant to pay a visit to you three days
past, Gannon,” Breanne said. “But I was buttonholed by my mother’s
husband to be.”

He met her gaze openly. “A pity. I’d have
enjoyed your company though I must say I mightn’t have been verra
good for it myself. The abbot has me right busy of late.” He leaned
in. “He’s all afluster for the arrival of a relic.”

“A relic?” Rose asked.

“Not so loud, my lady,” Gannon said and
winked at Breanne. “The arrival is known by no one. In truth, I
only know of it accidentally and of my own conclusion.”

The twinkle in his eye had Breanne ready to
kick him under the table for pulling their legs. A relic, of all
things, to arrive in Tir Conaill.

“I mean no jest, Breanne—your pardon—Lady
O’Donnell. As logically as one and one forming two, I’ve concluded
and found out the Abbot’s secret.” Gannon winked again and Breanne
saw that the twinkle wasn’t from amusement so much as pride. “You
would draw the same conclusion I think.”

“Breanne,” she said. “Please, call me
Breanne.”

“Aye. Breanne.” They exchanged a
conspiratorial smile that had Rose’s eyebrows lifting skyward.

Breanne widened her eyes at her friend. Not a
word, she silently warned but saw that Rose’s reaction was not due
to Gannon and her exchange at all. Something else held her friend’s
attention.

Rotating in her seat, Breanne scanned the
hall for the source of her friend’s sudden, “Oh my. Would you look
at that.” Quinlan bowed to Niall some fifteen heads down at the
next table. Niall stood. Together they took to the entrance as
Quinlan obviously bent his ear to some issue. The two men stopped
short of the entrance, under the arcade of carved arches that led
to the doors.

Niall reached a meaty hand forward and the
motion of a dozen more heads followed, peering. With one step, he
came out of shadow and into light. The knight she left not an hour
ago safe, hidden, well, knelt before Niall O’Donnell. Of all the
turned heads, none were as captivated as Breanne.

And why should they be? A stranger joining
the hall to dine was not uncommon. Niall was well renowned for his
left arm being longer than his right, that his was among the most
hospitable kinships in all of Ulster.

“He’s a handsome one, that. Remind me Bree of
how well I love my Ryan?”

Breanne couldn’t speak. How—why was he here?
And bathed and dressed and smiling like no man in his recent
condition or circumstance should.

“I’ll bet you a sennight of laundering he’s
kin,” Rose said at her back.

Breanne stood, balled her fists, then
realized she only gained unnecessary speculation and sat back down
equally fast. Did this man have a wish to die? Was he mad?

“Are you well, Breanne?” Gannon asked.

“Aye,” she said. “Adjusting my skirts is
all.” Breanne focused on the young face looking eagerly back at
her, banishing the other one, his, from her mind.

“Are you certain? Yer face is flushed red as
an apple’s skin. Do you need to take some air?”

Breanne shook her head, her mouth tight, and
smiled. “A bit thirsty, perhaps.” She drank a long gulp of ale.
Better. So long as she didn’t turn around, finished her meal in
short time, she should be able to conceal the riot of emotion
within her.

* * * *

Ashlon spotted her long before she turned
around, curiously looking about. And he didn’t miss the expression
of horror when he’d kneeled before the local king, Niall O’Donnell.
She must think him quite arrogant to have disregarded her wishes,
warnings, and arrived here.

But, he counted himself as lucky, not
arrogant. From the moment he set sail as passenger on the merchant
ship from Spain to Scotland, luck had followed him. Luck of the
Irish, Jacques would have said, often did when Ashlon’s life went
right in the most wrong of circumstance, though his blood ran
English tracing back as far as could be traced.

Ashlon had set foot outside the cave with a
full belly and a mind to explore, map in hand. By good chance,
Quinlan Blake came upon him without menace and brought him directly
here, to the very man De Molay had instructed Ashlon find should
anything go awry.

Awry seemed too weak a descriptor for his
mislay. But, with resources such as Niall O’Donnell at his avail,
Ashlon wouldn’t feel defeated quite yet.

In quick order, he was bathed, his garments
seen to and freshened, and brought to dine. Yes, luck was his
companion of late and he hoped it would not end now.

“You are welcome at my table, Sir Sinclair
under one condition. My men and I will hear of your journeys and
particularly of that which brings you to our tuath.” Niall clasped
his hand with both of his, gave it a sturdy shake that matched his
nod.

“My eternal gratitude, my lord. Though I have
little adventure to tell.”

“Nonsense. We all have tales and if it is
true then we’ll count on the bards William and Wallace for our
imaginations’ delight.”