L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (15 page)

The maid pointed into the room. Moira joined her in the doorway,
her serious expression changing to a smile. “Milord, I’ll thank you not to
terrorize the maidservants.” Taking Maeve by the arm, Moira led her away and
returned alone a moment later. “Now you’ll have the silly lass mooning after
you,” she scolded, though he could hear laughter in her tone and see it in her
eyes.

He gathered the blanket more securely about his waist. “You can
thank Padrig for that,” he said dryly. “If not for his screeching, I’d yet be
abed, disturbing no one.” He gave the squire, standing in silence at the foot
of the bed, a grin to soften the words.

The lad’s face remained pale and serious, however. “′Tis a
jest, Padrig,” Connor reassured him. Glancing at the light shining through the
shutters, he added, “I should have been up and about my work long since.” He
met Moira’s gaze. “It seems that recent events have exhausted me.”

Let her take that however she would. He’d not slept well, though
whether the memory of Moira’s kisses, his worry over her wandering through the
cellars in the dead of night, or something else completely had caused his
restlessness, he didn’t know.

He
did
know, however,
that if Moira continued to stare at him, he’d soon need to adjust the fit of
his makeshift garb lest his overeager body embarrass all three of them.

“Padrig, bring me water to wash,” he ordered. Perhaps shifting
his attention to something besides the near-physical touch of Moira’s gaze over
his body would help. The blanket dragging along behind him, he turned to the
window and threw the shutters open wide, flooding the room with light.

Padrig knelt to gather up the clothing scattered about him on the
floor.

“Now,
Padrig.”

The lad stood, glanced from Connor to Moira, lowered his gaze and
bobbed a bow. “At once, milord,” he said, his voice cracking. He darted for the
door, snatching the water pitcher from the table as he passed.

Now that they were alone, the sensations caused by Moira’s stare
intensified despite the bright light filling the room. Connor sank down on the
bed and bent to pick up his sword off the floor.

The door creaked shut and footsteps drew nearer to the bed.

“Unless you intend to join me here, Moira, I suggest you keep
your distance,” he told her, focusing his attention upon sliding the weapon
into its sheath. “My body has dominion over my mind when I first wake. It
wouldn’t be wise to tempt fate—” he glanced up and found her standing so close,
he could reach out and sweep her onto the mattress if he chose “—by giving me
too much encouragement.”

Her right hand settled onto his shoulder, her fingers cool against
his overheated flesh as she trailed them over the curve of his shoulder, along
the muscles of his upper arm.

He sucked in his breath. “Jesu, you’ll drive me mad,” he
muttered, shutting his eyes to block out her intent expression.

It made no difference, for her face remained emblazoned upon his
mind’s eye.

She closed her hand about his arm and turned his back toward the
window. “Who did this to you?” she asked, her outrage clear though he could
barely hear the whispered words.

His eyes snapped open, and his stomach churned when he glanced
over his shoulder and realized what had caught her attention.

“′Tis nothing.” He tried to shrug free of her hold, but she
kept her hand clasped firmly about his arm.

Unwilling to release Connor, Moira moved so that she had a better
view of his shoulder and back. This close, in the clear morning light, she
could see what hadn’t been visible before.

Many scars, long and thin, showed white against the tanned,
freckled skin. She smoothed her hand over his upper back and discovered some
were more easily felt than seen. He’d had them a long time, she’d guess. They
had the pale, faded look of wounds long healed.

She slid her hand back around to clasp the bulging muscles of his
arm; with her free hand, she reached up and turned his face toward her.
“Connor?”

“Let it alone, Moira.” The pain and turmoil in his dark eyes
belied his flat tone. “I told you ′twas naught.”

“Scars such as this don’t happen by accident,” she said, her
voice quiet, but firm. She’d not rest till she discovered who could have done
such a thing to him … to a child. Who could have beaten a young nobleman so
badly?

She stroked her hand over his shoulder again, meaning naught by
her touch but to soothe, but he caught her wrist in an unyielding grip and
lifted her hand away. “Enough!”

Holding the blanket in place with one hand, he slipped past her
and stood just beyond her reach, turned so his back remained hidden from her.

The pain in his eyes, however, was clear and visible, as was the
anger smoldering within him.

That he’d not give her the answer she sought was clear. And
perhaps ′twas not her business to dredge up painful memories from his
past.

But how her heart ached for the young boy he’d been, for the hurt
so deep the anguish of it still shone plainly from his eyes.

Anguish mixed with shame.

“Connor, I’m sorry.” Sorry that he’d been beaten. Sorry that
she’d upset him.

But not sorry she’d seen the scars, for they told her that there
was more to this man than the strong, able facade he presented to the world.

In that moment, she saw him not as a warrior, a figure of
authority, the image of a noble, but as a man.

She caught her breath as she realized the intensity of the
attraction she felt for that man.

The door creaked open, startling them. Connor fairly leaped past
her to the window; Moira, knees weak and heart racing, leaned back against the
bedpost. Padrig came into the room, the water pitcher in one hand and a
steaming bucket in the other.

“Shall I shave you, milord?” the squire asked, his cheerful voice
sounding out of place. The lad seemed unaware of the tension still binding
Moira and Connor together, for he whistled a merry tune as he poured water into
the basin. He turned to pick up the clothing he’d dropped earlier, his gaze
coming to rest on Moira, and quieted abruptly. “I beg your pardon, milord. Lady
Moira. ′Twas not my intention to interrupt your—” he looked from one to
the other and his cheeks flushed “—your conversation,” he concluded, his voice
trailing away. He waved his hand toward the door. ”Shall I come back later?”

The lad’s obvious embarrassment made Moira all too aware of how
this must appear. Her face felt as hot as Pacing’s looked. She straightened and
stepped away from the bedpost, thankful he hadn’t entered the room earlier,
when she’d had her hands all over Connor. “Nay, I must go,” she said, already
halfway to the door.

“Moira.” Connor’s voice stopped her with her hand on the latch.
Gathering her courage, she glanced back to where he stood by the window. She
couldn’t see his face with the bright light surrounding him—a blessing, though
to judge by his tone, he’d recovered his composure. “We will talk, and soon.”

Hearing the promise in his words, she could only nod and slip out
of the room.

After Moira left, Connor washed quickly and scrambled into his
clothes. He hadn’t intended to sleep so late, nor to skip his morning routine.
Today he felt the need to clear his mind and relax his body more keenly than
usual. Especially since Moira had stirred up unsettling memories of his past
with her innocent question about the scars on his back. But he would have to
wait to ease his tension, for today he must look to the present and the
future—untainted by the past.

Despite his continuing fatigue, anticipation thrummed through his
veins as he left the keep. Perhaps today he’d discover the answers he
sought—the answers that would enable him to protect Moira and her babe, to give
her peace of mind.

When he’d returned to the barracks last night—or this morn, more
likely—he’d roused Will from his bed and sent him into the undercroft to guard
the door leading to the narrow passageway. Though he wasn’t pleased to be
dragged from his bed, Will’s mood had improved once he realized that Sir Ivor
would be forced to endure the misery of spending the night in the cellars, as
well.

As for d’Athée, Connor didn’t know what accounted for his
apparent about-face, but the other man had grown quieter, more pensive the past
few days, at least in his presence. Perhaps ′twas Will’s influence on
him, though Connor doubted it could be that simple. Still, he’d be an arrogant
fool to deny that a man could change—change greatly—when he himself had worked
so hard these last few years to effect such a change in his own life.

Though given his reaction when Moira had asked who’d scarred his
back, he couldn’t help but wonder if the changes in himself were on the outside
only. The feelings coursing through him when she’d smoothed her hand over the
faded marks had borne a strong resemblance to those he’d felt years before,
whenever anyone noticed him. He’d felt then—and again this morning—as though
all his faults and sins were laid bare, exposed for anyone to see if they but
looked his way.

′Twas a terrible sensation, painful and frightening, one
he’d believed—he’d hoped—never to experience again. That it was Moira who’d
seen him thus made the angry child hiding within him want to howl in rage.

Or run away so she’d no chance of ever unmasking him again.

But one thing he
had
learned was that running never made his troubles disappear. It only made them
worse. He would run no more.

He could only hope that the next time he saw Moira, he’d have the
strength to push that cowering child deeper within himself, where she couldn’t
find him.

After leaving Connor’s chamber, Moira kept herself busy, hoping
her duties, and the demands of supervising the servants as they went about
their work, would occupy her mind to the exclusion of all else.

It mattered little, however, for thoughts of Connor crept into
her head despite her efforts to avoid them. That she also saw him from a
distance several times did not help. At least their duties kept them apart, a
circumstance she prayed would last for a good while longer. The more time she
spent in Connor’s company, the more confused she became.

The more distracted from the course she knew she must follow.

He drew her to him with every new facet of his character that she
discovered. It had taken her months—nay, years, more like—to know Lord Brien as
well.

If she ever had.

But in the case of her husband, she’d found it no hardship to
keep her distance from him whenever possible. She’d thought him a crotchety old
man the first time they’d met, and marriage to him had done little to change
her initial impression.

She’d found it easier to face the more intimate aspects of their
union when he himself remained a mystery to her. At night when she sought her
bed, she made certain all the candles in her chamber were out, the shutters
closed to block out the moonlight, the fire died down to a few glowing coals.
She’d been naught but a vessel for her husband’s seed, and she’d done
everything she could to maintain that illusion for both of them.

However, until Dermot MacCarthy came into her life, she hadn’t
understood what that fact meant to Lord Brien.

They’d met Dermot on several occasions, always among the groups
of nobles at some feast or gathering. He’d been charming to
all
the women, from what she’d seen.
Certainly she’d never noticed that he singled her out in any way, nor had he
ever done anything—within her sight—to show that he’d any particular interest
in Lord Brien FitzGerald’s wife.

In her husband’s eyes he had, she learned later, though to this
day she had no idea what that had been. But Lord Brien had become protective of
her, attentive to her both inside their bedchamber and outside it.

And each sign of attention her husband lavished upon her made her
dislike for him grow stronger.

Her mere tolerance of her situation turned to loathing as he
redoubled his efforts to provide himself with an heir.

A legitimate heir.

Despite Moira’s secret hopes to the contrary, her husband took no
other women to his bed. It shamed her to recall how she’d prayed, when a new
young maid had joined their household, that the girl would capture Lord Brien’s
attention and distract him from his wife. That her prayers had been
unsuccessful was a blessing her stained soul no doubt did not deserve.

She’d always known Lord Brien desired a son, but she’d begun to
suspect he had more reason than the wish to pass on his name. Did he fear that
the FitzCliffords might remove him from his position at Gerald’s Keep because
of his age? He was their vassal, as well as their kin. Surely they had an
obligation to him in return for his homage to them.

“—sit down, milady?” Brigit’s voice, coming from behind her,
broke though Moira’s reverie as she climbed the stairs to her solar.

Hand pressed against the smooth plaster wall, Moira stopped and
glanced down at the maid. “What is it, Brigit?”

The old woman, huffing for breath, halted at the bottom of the
steps. “You must have been lost in your thoughts, milady,” she said, her voice
quavering. “I’ve been trying to catch your attention since you came into the
hall from outside.”

Guilt sent Moira slowly back down the stairs. “I’m sorry,
Brigit.” She took the maid by the arm and led her to a bench at the edge of the
hall. “Here, sit and rest.”

Brigit sank onto the long, narrow seat and drew Moira down beside
her. “As long as you will as well.”

It
did
feel good to get
off her feet and rest her aching back against the cool stone wall. “′Tis
a fine idea you had,” Moira said, sighing in pleasure.

“That it is. And a wise one, too, if you don’t plan to work
yourself into labor today. You’re doing too much, milady,” she scolded. “It’s
not good for you or the child—and to my mind, ′tis still a mite too early
yet for the child to be born, as I’ve told you before.”

Moira leaned toward Brigit and gave the old woman’s hand a
squeeze. “I know.” She gazed absently into the hall, where the servants worked
at setting up the trestle tables for the midday meal. “I hadn’t realized ′twas
so late. I’d thought to rest in my chamber for a bit before dinner.” The
night’s exertions had caught up with her, especially since her sleep, once
she’d sought her bed for the second time last night, had been far from restful.
Worries about a secret passageway into the keep …
Nay, be honest,
she silently admonished herself. ′Twas
thoughts of Connor FitzClifford that had replaced her usual round of worries to
haunt her dreams.

She knew she should stand up, be about some business, but decided
to wait a little longer before forcing her weary body into motion. Instead she
shifted to a more comfortable position on the bench. “You see, I
have
been listening to you,” she added,
smiling at Brigit’s feigned look of surprise.

“I know you do, milady.” The maid patted Moira’s arm, her faded
gaze sharp as she looked Moira over from head to toe and back again. “You’re
not sleeping well. I can see it in your face.” She picked up Moira’s hands and
held them, turning them this way and that. “And see how your fingers have
swollen? Your feet are the same, I’d wager.”

Moira nodded. “A little. But ′tis normal for them to do
so—isn’t it?” She knew she’d heard of it happening, quite often, now that she
considered it.

“Some swelling is usual. But staying on your feet won’t help
matters any.” Brigit let go of her hands, and Moira fought the urge to tug her
skirts down around her ankles lest the maid take it into her head to examine
them as well. “We’ve help aplenty around the place. At least now that Lord
Connor’s brought us some real fighting men, we do. Everyone can go back to
their own duties.” She shuddered. “We’ve been lucky so far, milady, that Hugh
MacCarthy’s left us alone. I hate to imagine how we’d have fared before, if
we’d had to defend the place.”

Moira looked up and saw Sir Will weaving his way among the busy
servants, heading toward her.

A wide grin brightening his face, he stopped before her and swept
her an elaborate bow. “Sir Will, you’ve no need to be so formal,” she chided.
Though she knew him for a jokester—and enjoyed his japes and jests—it left her
feeling distinctly uncomfortable to be the recipient of his humorous brand of
charm. Though ′twas harmless, she knew.

“As you wish,” he said, assuming a serious expression in the
blink of an eye. “Milady, I’ve orders from Lord Connor to bring you to him at
once.”

She’d not be able to avoid Connor any longer, so it seemed. And try
though she might, she couldn’t suppress the surge of heat, of excitement, that
thought sent spilling into her veins.
Fool!
she
chided herself. ′Twas folly to allow her
emotions to overrule her good sense. Hoping her thoughts didn’t show on her
face, she gathered up her skirts to rise from the bench.

Sir Will held out a hand to help her. “Take your time, milady,
you needn’t rush.” Once she stood he placed her hand on his arm and led her
with great care through the hall.

′Twas all she could do not to laugh by the time they
reached the door. “We’ll be at this the rest of the day at this speed,” she
told him. “I’ll not collapse at your feet if we move faster, Sir Will—though I
appreciate your concern.”

The knight met her gaze, and evidently noticed the amusement she
couldn’t quite disguise. “As you wish.” He lifted her hand off his arm and
sketched another bow—a brief one this time. “
You
may set the pace and lead the way, milady.” Lips twitching as
he held back a grin, Sir
Will
raised her arm and
cocked it at the elbow, then placed his hand atop it. “Thank you so much for
your escort,” he said, his voice pitched high in imitation of a woman’s.
“Please, promise you’ll be gentle with me,” he added, fluttering his eyelashes.

Fairly bursting with the need to laugh, Moira waited to speak
until they’d begun to descend the stairs and she’d mastered her voice. “You,
Sir Will, are a rogue through and through.”

“′Tis a pleasure to make you laugh, milady. Ivor laughs at
little, though he’s improving. I’ll wear him down eventually.”

“It must be difficult for you, to be in his company all the
time.” She could scarce imagine a worse torture.

“′Tis not so bad. He forces me to think, to think hard, for
how else
can I
argue with his ridiculous statements?”
he asked wryly. “Jests are easy for me. Thinking is more difficult. And I’ve
had little practice at it. At l’Eau Clair, no one expects anything of me
but smiles and laughter.”

She’d never considered that would be a trial, but it appeared she
was wrong. “Your skill is impressive, Sir Will. But I’ve no doubt your mind
works with equal talent.”

“Thank you, milady,” he murmured.

“Where am I taking you, by the way?” she asked as they reached
the bailey.

“To the undercroft.”