Irish Moon (29 page)

“Oh?” Breanne swallowed the growing lump in
her throat.

“The funny part is that, well, methinks Niall
took my question as a serious inquiry. He asked me yesterday how
our courtship went.” Gannon chuckled uneasily. “I told him well,
not knowing what else to answer, and thought the man a bit daft or
confused.”

“You’re not intending to ask for me then?”
Breanne asked in a rapid spurt of confidence.

“Course not. I mean no insult, Breanne. I
think you’re lovely, right enjoy your company. But, I thought I
better set the issue right in case I mislead Niall or you
unintentionally.” He met her gaze.

Breanne didn’t know what to say. On the one
hand she felt more relieved than she should or than she wanted to
show him. On the other, Gannon had just shortened her suitor list
in quick order and it did sting just a bit.

In the end, humor won out. “But, Gannon, I’ve
already sewn my gown. My mother has spoken with yours.”

Gannon’s eyes bulged and Breanne couldn’t
contain her laughter any more. The joke was a bit cruel and petty
but damned if it didn’t make her feel better. Not to mention
clearing the palpable tension from the room.

“Which is it, by the by?” Breanne said.

“Which is what?”

“Which cat has Danny selected?”

Gannon grinned, his gaze on the open chest.
“The runt. He’s named her Legend.”

“Aye, and good you warned me, Gannon, as I
may have picked her myself. I’ve a soft spot for those beset with a
challenge.”

“When would you like this by?” He gestured
the page in the air, returning to their common ground,
learning.

“Well, as soon as you can so long as it’s not
a burden to your work. I’m a bit impatient to snub the nose that
looked down in giving me the task.” It was a slight truth.

“Can I ask if it was your uncle the abbot
that challenged you so?”

“Aye, you can, but he’s not the one.” Breanne
watched the little kittens clamor over each other for food, their
mother heavy lidded and looking content. “Does he like a bit of
mystery, my uncle?”

“That he does. I’ve told you of his expected
arrival?”

She nodded.

“If it does not arrive shortly, I fear he’ll
go mad in the wait of it and every day has a new supposition of
what it might be. He believes the papal missive is coded well
enough to conceal the identity of the relic.” Gannon chuckled. “Not
a dull day goes by in these halls, Breanne.”

She smiled up at him, enjoying the dance in
his eyes. Such a charmer, that one. And if she was not mistaken,
Gannon was flirting with her own interest in intrigue.

“I should be getting back afore my mother
sends the guard. I’m hoping I’ll be allowed to dine tonight and
join the dance after.” She rose to leave. “Can we work on the
puzzle together on the morrow, Gannon?”

He checked the hall for Father Connelly
before they exited and hurried back to the entrance. “I’d like
that.” He kissed her hand and bid her farewell.

The sun was nearing the horizon and Breanne
decided a visit with her uncle would have to wait. If she walked
fast, she might be able to take Rhiannon up on her invitation. What
harm could there be, after all, in looking her most tempting when
every other lady there would be sure to shine?

Approaching the outer bailey, Breanne
remembered the fact that Ashlon might be looking for answers
regarding her progress. Her belly tightened at the thought of
telling him the truth. While she trusted Gannon not to suspect
anything untoward, Ashlon might dislike a stranger being
involved.

She couldn’t lie to him. She took her vow
seriously for he needed to trust her. Otherwise, they would make
little progress in finding the chest and securing his safe
departure.

Ashlon would be gone as early as days from
now if Gannon’s help proved fruitful. She could simply avoid him
tonight and hope he did her, as well. But, considering this
afternoon’s events, she found the possibility farfetched.

Well, she would simply have to be honest. No
matter how difficult his reaction might be.

Chapter Seventeen

Though the dinner marked the beginning of the
wedding festivities, few talked of the coming nuptials. Far more
interesting to most men and women among the closely packed tables
was discussion of the day’s games.

Who won, who lost, who fell flat on his arse.
And none seemed at all insulted that among the ten declared
champions, an outlander was ranked in third. If Ashlon was welcomed
before, now he felt embraced.

The many names he’d learned were difficult to
match to the many bearded, ruddy faces who joined Niall’s table of
men that night to feast on soda bread, smoked venison and pulled
pork. Ale and wine flowed freely and as well as the compliments,
jibes, and wagers on the games scheduled for the morrow. A day of
rest would do him good and he might even be able to search the
coast line, today’s goal gone awry with Niall’s petition he join
the games.

And glad he was that he had stayed. The day
had been eventful to say the least. Not only had he attained third
in line for the championship rounds, but, he’d been reunited with a
fellow Templar, Sir Ramsey Johnston. Ashlon’s elder by fifteen
years, they had attained equal rank and shared in its ceremony.

Ashlon had not seen Ramsey in more than eight
years, though. While Ashlon had spent his last year in France,
Ramsey hadn’t left his home in England and had served there until
Pope Clement and King Philip began their campaign to destroy the
brotherhood and gain its considerable wealth for their own.

While Ashlon went from place to place in
hiding, Ramsey came straight to Ireland, joined the O’Doherty clan
and also hired on with Robert Bruce as gallowglass in his crusade
against English tyranny.

“Do you know, Ashlon, there is law on
England’s books forbidding an English noble to dress, speak, or
participate in activity that is Irish?”

Ashlon shook his head, his mouth full, but
wasn’t surprised. Such a good-hearted, lively people grew on the
soul, lifted it up unexpectedly. Even in the short time he’d been
there, he found it difficult to suppress.

“They made me one of their own when the whole
world seemed set to believe the lies and rot slurring a legacy of
generosity and courage. Mark me you’ll be hard pressed to leave.
And why would you, I ask?” It was the seventh time Ramsey had
asked.

Ashlon half-smiled and chewed. He wouldn’t
answer. What was the point in doing so when he meant to leave and
could not tell the man why? Not that he did not trust Ramsey, he
did. But Jacques had been clear. “Tell no one. Trust no one save
those who do not, will not gain from aiding you. And that will be
one and only one soul.”

He’d thought the words too marked by fear at
the time, but he held to them and trusted that his mentor would
make sense one day. They had parallel lives, Breanne and he. She
had had Heremon. He had had Jacques De Molay. He received a grave
speech, she a cryptic letter, but both were asked by others to
protect solely based on the trust and faith instilled by a
teacher.

He wondered for the first time what it was
that she belonged to. What was the nature between Heremon and her?
He felt a bit badly for being so self-consumed with attaining the
chest and ending his journey, the scent of home, and new beginning
so fresh and clean in his mind that he’d not once considered
it.

Ashlon leaned back far enough to see past
Ramsey and glimpse her. Healer, angel, stubborn, proud. Who was
Breanne O’Donnell? What was her life before he arrived and it
turned upside down with death and secrecy and passion?

She smiled and spoke to Rose. It was
dangerous to feel so drawn to her, to forget himself so well when
she was near. He’d kissed her again, had allowed a bite of jealousy
to rule his actions. It maddened him. And it pressured him.

Ramsey still spoke of all of Ireland and
Northern Scotland’s comely attributes and Ashlon nodded when
appropriate. With each trait listed, the pressure grew, with each
glance her way, the hole in him widened.

Breanne could feel his eyes on her. A tingle
on her neck, at her shoulder told her he peered her way. She fought
not to glance back, to keep her eyes and, more importantly and more
difficult than it should be, her attention on the meal and table
she sat at.

When the meal cleared and both bards and
players began to set up. Breanne’s belly fluttered as a familiar
scent closed in. It was Ashlon and she didn’t know what was worse,
that she recognized the spicy clean scent of him or that he was so
near.

“You look beautiful this eve,” he said in low
tones at her shoulder.

His words were a caress and she shivered
despite the warmth inside her. “Thank you,” she said but did not
turn or look at him.

Guests and residents milled about in anxious
wait for the floor to be cleared. Their bodies pressed around the
pair, pushing her closer to him.

“Have you yet discovered the text’s
meaning?”

Quickly, she shook her head. Expecting him to
ask, to approach her was one thing, the reality of it quite
another. She suddenly felt hot and a bit dizzy. “Excuse me,
please.” Hurriedly, before the panic threatening her chest took
hold, Breanne snaked through the crowd and out the main double
doors.

The cool air washed her face and cooled her
breaths as she fought to steady her mind. Inside the music began
with the rhythmic beat of a bodhran. It slammed as loud as her
heart and as the music joined and spread around it, Breanne found a
sudden feeling of epiphany taking over the panic.

She saw the chest suddenly in her mind.
Ashlon lifted it from its resting place, wiping it clean and dry,
gathering it into his arms as one would a child. His face wore
relief and amazement. He looked at her with gratitude shining in
his eyes and another emotion that made her heart ache. One she
couldn’t define.

It was more than protection, fate required of
her. And the certainty of knowledge went deeper than Heremon’s
presage, further than his letter, past her own prediction. She knew
then that she must become like a rock in a storm as certainly as
knowing her own name. The prediction was simple and irrefutable to
her in that moment as the music swept about in waves of notes
crashing and pulling hearts and minds.

Ashlon Sinclair was her fate, her
destiny.

And that meant her destiny was in peril, not
simply his life.

The doors opened behind her and she did not
need his scent or deep voice to know it was him.

“Breanne.”

Without turning to see the emotion that
strangled his voice, Breanne said, “We must go tomorrow night.”

She imagined he shook his head in the silence
before replying.

“Where?”

“I know where the chest is.”

“You solved the script. When? Why did you not
say so? Where is it? Quickly, we must go now.” He stepped close to
her.

Breanne turned about. “We canno’ go now. We
would be missed.”

“You would be missed. I will not. Tell me
where it lies and I will retrieve it alone. ‘Tis probably safer, as
well.”

“You canno’ leave either. And you will not go
without me.”

“I beg to differ my lady. Clear of
translating the script, I require no further assistance, would not
have asked of it if another option were available. I will go now
and without you.”

Breanne didn’t doubt he meant what he said.
His eyes were fierce, his mouth set. He didn’t seem to realize that
they were intrinsically linked and not by the book or by the chest
but by events set in motion by a generation past. And she didn’t
know how to explain this fact without sounding heretical or
mad.

She searched for another, equally true,
explanation while he searched her eyes.

Ashlon held her shoulders and stooped low.
“Breanne, please, I know there is an invisible draw between us. I
feel the pull of my soul and body to you, but I dare not risk
losing that chest. There is more at stake in its loss than I am at
liberty to share with you or even claim to know myself. Please, I
need you to tell me where it is now. If I wait any longer, I fear
the consequences will damage far more than my life but yours, all
of Tir Conaill’s even.”

“Aye, I know. Heremon spoke as much in the
time of your arrival and I realize now before it, as well. He has
been long preparing me for this day and only now did I see it.”

Ashlon ran his hands through his hair. The
music inside took on a frenzied beat as the song reached the
crescendo. The fast beats matched the tension between them.

“If you know, as you say you do, if what you
say is true, then you will tell me now.”

Breanne slowly shook her head and braced for
his outrage. “Please believe me, Ashlon. I do not mean to impede
you, in fact, the opposite. The chest is safe. I know where it
lies, I must first discover how to get there.”

Ashlon frowned. He shook his head. “You know
its location but not how to reach it?”

She could see he did not ask her these
questions, was venting more than naught. The music paused. Silence
spread its wings around them.

“When the moon reaches its zenith tomorrow
night, we will go. Meet me outside of the rear bailey postern.”

“I will go. You will stay. I will not put you
at risk.” He sounded better if not a bit saddened.

Breanne turned to go inside. He grasped her
wrist.

“Is there more riddle to solve? Is there some
person to ask for direction?” He must feel rather powerless.

“Aye. And I have.”

Ashlon nodded but his frustration was clear.
He wanted to press her for detail but seemed to rein in the urge.
The old ways were nigh extinct in England and elsewhere. So, she
didn’t think he fully comprehended the weight of her words, but
trusted her all the same, or tried to.