L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (12 page)

Connor had decided to get straight to his duties this morn,
without taking the time for his usual exercises. Though he could have benefited
from a clear head when he drafted his letter to Hugh MacCarthy, he thought with
a rueful laugh. He’d spent nearly an hour scratching away on a piece of
parchment, writing and rewriting, before he’d been satisfied that he’d achieved
his objective—a missive warning the MacCarthys away from Moira, her child and
Gerald’s Keep, while hopefully not enraging the fools to the point where they
descended upon the castle like a plague.

However, that might be the best solution—draw them out and have
at them. The idea made him itch to be armed and fighting. Waiting and
wondering—being
patient
—was not his
way. Only the thought that he must protect Moira stayed his hand from sending
MacCarthy what would amount to an invitation to combat.

′Twas no wonder his muddled thoughts didn’t promise to
untangle anytime soon.

Certainly not whenever he was in Moira’s presence.

He wished he knew more about women—
this
woman, at least. Every time he believed he’d begun to know her
a little, she showed him another facet of herself—and confused him completely.

He raked his hands through his hair in frustration. Was there
naught in his life at this moment that made a whit of sense?

He ran Will to ground in the barracks as the sky lightened. ′Twas
a cool, misty day—perfect to make exploring the cliffs more dangerous than
usual. “A quiet night?” he asked as they approached the gatehouse.

“Aye, milord. The most excitement we saw all evening was when
Cedric challenged Jean to an arm wrestling match for the favor of a buxom
wench,” Will said with a grin. “Though I can’t be certain whether ′twas
her charms or the fact that she works in the kitchen that attracted them to
her.”

“Considering that each of them eats as though he’ll be denied the
tiniest crumb tomorrow, ′tis likely the promise of extra food that drew
them,” Connor added wryly. “Who won?”

“They got so involved in trying to best each other, the maid left
them for someone who’d pay her more notice.”

“Likely just as well. If they grow much bigger, we’ll have to get
the armorer to add more links to their hauberks.” Connor paused outside the
door to the gatehouse. “But ′twas quiet on the walls?”

“Aye, else I’d have sent word to you at once, milord. Nothing of
note happened last night . .
. ”
His expression
serious, Will stopped as though lost in thought. “Nothing except that Sir Ivor
surprised me by speaking up after you took Lady Moira’s brother away.”

“Indeed?” Connor’s lips quirked in a mirthless smile. “And what
great revelations did he decide to share with you?”

Will’s face didn’t change. “Seems he’s been thinking about
whatever ′twas you said to him before, and his assumption about the lady
and the MacCarthys. He didn’t care to hear her brother call her a whore, I can
tell you that.”

“Nor did
I
.” It was a vast
understatement. Connor hadn’t believed he’d ever find a reason to agree with
Sir Ivor on much of anything—and certainly not something involving Moira. “Any
idea why he’s changed his stance? I cannot believe ′twas anything I said
that accounts for it.”

Will shook his head. “All I know is what he told me, milord.
Could be he suspects you plan to send him away and hopes to change your mind.
But considering he vowed his hatred of the Irish less than a week ago, that
doesn’t make sense, either. I wouldn’t trust him any more today than I did
then, God’s truth.”

“You’ve the right of it, Will.” Something more to mull over when
he’d naught else to occupy his mind, Connor thought with a frown. Who could
guess what plots Sir Ivor had running through his brain? “I cannot send him to
Rannulf quite yet, however.
D’Athee’s
a decent
fighter, and we’ll have need of him before we’re through here, I have no
doubt.” He led the way into the gatehouse and removed the key to the storeroom
from the pouch on his belt. “Ready for another futile conversation?” he asked,
eyebrows raised.

“Perhaps we’ll be lucky,” Will murmured.

Connor stopped with the key poised near the lock. “Are you
certain you didn’t overindulge last night? Perhaps ′tis a surfeit of wine
that makes you so hopeful.”

“Nay, milord,” Will said, his laugh deep and full. “′Tis my
cheerful nature.”

Laughing as well, Connor unlocked the door and swung it open.

An ear-splitting snore came from the man curled up on the pile of
grain sacks, sound asleep. Rolling his eyes, Will took the lantern off the wall
and carried it into the storeroom, opening the shutter wide and bending to
shine the light into O’Neill’s face.

“By Christ’s eyeballs!” the man snarled. He tried to leap up, but
slid on the uneven pile and fell to the floor with a thump. “What’s a fellow
got to do to get some sleep here?”

Connor stared at O’Neill in disbelief. “If you want to sleep,
find someplace else to do it.” He stood by the door, arms folded, and waited while
O’Neill picked himself up and set about brushing himself off and straightening
his garments.

Not that he looked any different once he’d finished.

By the rood, how was it possible that this fool was blood kin to
Moira? Was
she
the exception in her
family, or was Aidan?

“′Tis a busy place, with men stomping up and down the
stairs all the night long.” O’Neill shook his head, his sharp gaze focused on
Connor. “You must have a powerful garrison, indeed.”

Connor breathed a silent sigh of relief, for he’d begun to wonder
if he’d erred in locking O’Neill away here. But perhaps he’d unwittingly done
something right. “Aye, and so you may tell MacCarthy when you see him.”

“Oh, I’ve much to tell Hugh,” O’Neill said, his gaze considering.
“Of course, perhaps you and me, we might come to a better bargain than I have
with him—if you’ll meet my terms.”

“And what might they be?” Connor asked, though he could well
imagine.

O’Neill drew in a deep breath and grinned. “Well, ′tis like
this. If you could see your way to returning Moira to the loving arms of her
family, I just might be able to find out what Hugh’s plans for you are.” He
relaxed his stance, his grin widening. “After all, I don’t figure you for a man
who’d want a shrew like my sister around for long. She can’t be of any use to
you, now could she? Especially in the shape she’s in at the moment.”

Connor had just finished closing his hands around O’Neill’s
throat when Will grabbed him by the back of the tunic. Connor tightened his
hold for a moment—just long enough to give O’Neill a taste of his
strength—before he allowed Will to drag him away.

Will took up a position between the two of them—not that he’d be
able to stop Connor if he decided to grab O’Neill again—and tugged down the
cuffs of his shirt. “I know he’s a boil on the backside of decency, milord, but
I doubt Lady Moira would appreciate you throttling her brother.” He glanced
from Connor to O’Neill and shrugged. “Then again, mayhap I’m wrong.”

The sight of O’Neill rubbing at the marks on his neck filled
Connor with satisfaction, not that he intended to show it. Instead, taking his
time, he reached into the pouch at his waist and drew out a folded sheet of
parchment sealed with wax. “The only bargain I’m offering you is your neck—if
you get the hell out of here and stay out of your sister’s life.” He held out
the parchment, waiting with a patience he didn’t feel until Aidan snatched it
from his hand. “Moira is not yours to use, O’Neill, not again. If you
ever
forget that fact, I swear I’ll hunt
you down and finish what I started.”

Connor sent for Henry to escort Aidan O’Neill from Gerald’s
Keep—and to make certain he left the area. Frustration filled him as he watched
Moira’s brother leave, though he had to admit he was glad to see the last of
him. But if the man had been more reasonable, might he have learned something
useful from him?

Since “reasonable” didn’t describe O’Neill in the least, Connor
would have to discover what he wanted to know on his own.

The payment O’Neill demanded in return for information was simply
too high.

“I understand why you didn’t want to keep him here, milord—but
why didn’t you question him about the cliffs?” Will asked as they approached
the door leading from the bailey into the undercroft of the keep.

“He wouldn’t have told us anything,” Connor said flatly. “You
know it as well as
I
. All he cared about was working
things to his own advantage.” He yawned and, handing Will the lantern he
carried, carefully worked the large iron key he’d brought into the lock on the
heavy wood-and-iron door leading to the cellars. Considering the lock’s
battered appearance, the key turned with surprising ease. “He wouldn’t have
given me any information without first haggling over the price—and we both know
he’d not have made any bargain unless it brought Moira into his hands.”

“You’ve the right of that, milord.” Will’s frown echoed his own.
“I still cannot imagine her brother—her own
blood
—treating
her so badly.”

“You might be surprised at how poorly some people act toward
their relations,” he muttered as he focused his attention on wriggling the key
out of the misshapen lock. He ignored Will’s questioning look and gave the door
a shove; hinges squealing, it swung open, enveloping them in a cloud of cool,
musty air.

“If the Irish think to come in through here, we’ll hear them,”
Connor said, his voice dry. “Or smell the stench.” They entered the undercroft
of the keep and he pushed the door shut with another nerve-jangling screech. He
grimaced. “From the top floor.”

“What are we looking for, milord?”

“I haven’t any idea.” Connor took the lantern and headed for the
rough stone foundation of the opposite wall. “A hidden door, or the entrance to
a cave, perhaps? Sir Robert’s information was so vague as to be almost
useless.” He sighed. “′
Twas
just enough to whet
my curiosity.”

“Still, ′tis a place to start,” Will pointed out.

Considering Sir Robert’s obvious fear, they were fortunate to
have learned anything at all. “Aye. I should be grateful he was willing to tell
me that much.” Raising the lantern high, Connor pointed at the wall before
them. “This faces the headland. Seems as good a place as any other to begin.”

After spending the entire morning investigating but one room of
the dank, vaulted area, they were filthy, hungry and desperate for a breath of
fresh air. Connor preferred to carry out this chore himself, in the company of
men he knew and trusted completely, rather than send in men-at-arms from the
barracks. He had no desire for word of precisely what he was doing to leak out.
Twas
limiting, but necessary.

However, he decided he’d have to depend on d’Athée to help, for
he wanted to explore the cliffs himself. After questioning Sir Ivor closely and
deciding that the man’s fierce loyalty to his dead master—if nothing else—would
keep him honest, Connor swore him to silence and sent him to search the cellars
with Will after the midday meal.

He managed to put off Moira’s servants, who sought him out as
soon as he entered the keep, and to somehow evade the woman herself. Once he’d
eaten and given d’Athée and Will their orders, Connor stole out of the keep to
the headland. He wanted to search for answers to give Moira, to show her he was
doing all he could to protect her and her child, to keep them safe.

Until then, he planned to stay away from her—and the distraction
she presented.

Memories of Moira in his arms, of her rare smile, of her lips
pressed to his, were distraction enough.

Later that day, hot, filthy and soaked with sweat, Connor
gathered up his discarded tunic and weapons from the edge of the cliff and set
off along the headland toward the castle. The sun, which had burned through the
mist at midday, began to paint the sky with vivid streaks of color, and the
wind, thankfully little more than a faint breeze while he’d climbed about on
the rocks, had risen to howl around him like a swarm of ghosts.

When he reached the rock where he and Moira had rested the day
she’d brought him here, he decided to sit and enjoy the relative quiet as the
light faded. Perhaps the silence would help him determine what to do next, for
his search this afternoon had been as unsuccessful as the morning’s. He’d count
the day wasted, save for the fact that he’d had the chance to familiarize
himself more closely with the strengths and weaknesses of Gerald’s Keep.

Though he’d found nothing to indicate that anyone planned to
assault the castle from the cliffs, he
had
learned that the headland did not provide so impregnable a barrier as he’d been
led to believe. He’d climbed down to the sea and back up again without a rope
or anyone to help him. It had been a challenge, ′twas true—and his
strength was likely greater than many a man-at-
arm’s
—but
it
was
possible.

Of course, if there were some way into the keep
through
the cliff, that task would be
much easier to accomplish.

The wind whipped his hair about and plastered his shirt against
his chest, cooling his body. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back to let
the breeze blow the cobwebs from his mind, then jumped when he heard the crunch
of loose stones behind him.

Sword in hand, he jumped up and spun around, startling a shriek
from Moira. “Moira! What are you doing out here?” he snapped, lowering the
weapon and letting the tension ease from his muscles.

She left the path and crossed the swath of grass separating them.
“I thought to catch you before you returned to the keep.” She swept past him
and sat down on the rock. “It seemed that you might not escape me out here.”
She gazed out at the sea. “Besides, ′tis a beautiful evening, and quiet.
There’s little enough of that within the castle walls.” She glanced over at
him, her expression challenging. “I’m pleased to have caught you before you
disappeared again.”

“I was avoiding you earlier,” he admitted. And likely would have
done so again this evening, not that he’d tell her that now. He took a step
closer to her, propped one booted foot on the rock and rested his forearm on
his thigh. “I hoped you’d have a chance to rest today, but I see you did not.”
Noting the shadows beneath her eyes, he reached out to brush his fingers across
her cheek, then noticed how scratched and moss stained his fingers were in
contrast to her smooth, pale skin. He drew back, but she caught his hand in
hers and turned it palm up.

“What have you been doing?” she cried. She traced a finger over a
long, thin scrape on his thumb.

The shiver passing through him owed little to the cool wind and
everything to her touch. “′Tis nothing.” He closed his free hand into a
fist as he sought to keep from reaching for her.

She bent and pressed her lips to the cut, the simple gesture
sending a bolt of heat from his hand to his loins. The wind lifted her hair and
whipped it around his arm, ensnaring him as completely as if she had bound him
to her.

Sliding his hand from her grasp, he knelt before her and gathered
her to him in one smooth movement, his mouth capturing hers with a hunger he
could not deny.

She returned his kiss with equal fervor, burying her hands in his
hair and pressing close to him. Her kisses held a surprising innocence, but she
followed his lead as he swept his tongue across her mouth, then nibbled at her
lower lip.

“You taste so sweet,” he murmured against her mouth. He reached
up and tugged off her veil, sinking his hands in the bounty of her hair and
freeing it completely. The wind caught the long, dark strands, billowing them
about, enveloping him in her scent of flowers and spice—of woman. He smoothed
his fingers through the fragrant mass, the feel of its softness brushing
against his skin sending shards of heat to stoke the fire of madness burning
through him.

She stroked his scalp, his neck, before caressing his shoulders.
“You’ve such strength,” she whispered, closing her hands about his upper arms
as she drew away from him and met his eyes. “Yet you are so gentle with me.”
She looked down for a moment, then met his eyes again, her own a smoldering
blue. Tracing her fingers over the flesh exposed by his rolled-up sleeves, she
added, ‘“′Tis an exciting combination.”

′Twas a miracle he didn’t leap out of his skin to escape
the wave of desire washing over him. His entire body burned for her. He had
become so sensitized to her touch that the mere brush of her hair over the back
of his hand seemed enough to send him hurtling over the edge like an untried
boy. Her fingers upon his bare skin proved irresistible.

Connor ran his hands through the length of her hair, then sat
back on his heels and stroked her arms. “Your beauty makes me feel the strongest
of men,” he said. He cupped his hands lightly about her neck, then slowly
smoothed them down, outlining the fullness of her bosom, the mound of her
belly, halting with his hands clasped about her hips. “And the weakest of
fools.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips chastely to her mouth. “We
should not be doing this,” he said with regret. Brushing his mouth over the
velvet softness of her cheek, he shifted to hold her, burying his face in her
hair.

Moira returned the embrace, giving a soft sigh and nestling
deeper into his arms. Despite the desire still raging through him, Connor had
never felt more at ease. Yearning and a curious sense of satisfaction joined
within him as he held Moira, a contentment he’d never known existed until now.

When the wind lessened and the vivid streaks of color began to
fade from the sky, Connor released her, reluctant to let the moment end, but
knowing they shouldn’t remain there. She turned away, but not before he saw the
tears slowly welling from her eyes. He reached out and touched her damp cheek.
“Dearling, what is it?”

Moira gave Connor a shaky smile and leaned into his touch. “We
should go back, but I don’t want to leave. Not yet.” Her eyes filled with
tears, she scanned the churning sea, then turned to stare at the towers of
Gerald’s Keep silhouetted against the darkening sky. If only he knew how badly
she wanted to burrow back into his embrace, to borrow from him the strength to
face the troubles plaguing them! ′Twas a blessing he didn’t know the
depth of her desire, for ′twould likely send him rushing away from
Gerald’s Keep as swiftly as he could.

Simply because he’d offered her the security of his name didn’t
mean he wanted
her
, clinging to him
like a leech.

As for the other desire she felt, the yearning for Connor himself
… He couldn’t possibly want her in that way, so near her time with another
man’s child.

Hadn’t she learned better than to give in to desire? Though she
hadn’t cared for Dermot in the least—particularly after she realized her error
in accepting his bargain—she couldn’t help but mourn the fact that her actions
had helped lead to his death.

How, then, could she even consider accepting Connor’s offer?
Although she didn’t know him well, already she’d come to care for him, far more
deeply than she’d have believed possible.

Tears welled in her eyes yet again as she considered her dilemma.
Was she willing to risk Connor’s safety, possibly sacrifice him, to protect her
child?

She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, as much for comfort
as to hide her tears. Sitting here in his embrace, feeling his heart beating
strong and steady, how could she choose?

Connor laid his hand on her shoulder, his touch alone giving her
comfort. “We can stay till the sun sets, if you wish,” he said quietly. He sat
next to her on the stone and slipped his arm around her, then used his free
hand to turn her face toward him. “Moira,” he murmured, brushing away the tears
on her cheeks. “Dearling, tell me what’s wrong.”

She shook her head; she’d not be able to force the words past her
lips, not here and now.

His own lips firmed into a frown as he scanned her face: it felt
as though his eyes could see into her heart, her mind, into the shadows hidden
deep within her. But she refused to look away.

Let him stare, she thought fiercely, let him wonder. Perhaps he
would see the truth of her, spare her the shame of revealing to him the stains
upon her soul.

She could feel the rush of heat as a flush mounted her cheeks,
and still he watched her. If she had any courage to spare she’d have asked him
what he sought, what he saw, but it took all her resolve simply to hold his
measuring gaze.