L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (16 page)

A different excitement coursed through her now. “Connor has
discovered something?”

“I’ll let him tell you,” Sir Will said.

Moira hurried to the door into the cellars, Sir Will close on her
heels—ready to catch her should she stumble, no doubt, she thought with a
smile. ′Twas strange to have such concern directed toward her, but
heartening as well.

′Twas another aspect of the different mood prevailing here
since Connor’s arrival. The sense of hope, of comfort, of concern … She
glanced around the bailey. If she didn’t know better, she could almost believe
she’d been magically transported to another place altogether.

A guard stood beside the door, well-armed and stern. He nodded
respectfully to her, unlocked the door and opened it for them to enter. The
telltale clink of the key turning after he eased the portal closed sounded even
through the heavy panel.

Sir Will took a lantern from the pair hanging, lit and ready, on
either side of the door. Others lighted along the way chased away the heavy
shadows that had lent the cellars such an eerie feeling the previous night.

She followed Sir Will into the narrow passageway, then bumped
into him when he came to an abrupt halt. “Pardon me, milady,” he said. He moved
back a few paces and gestured for her to go ahead. “If you don’t mind going on
alone, you’ll find Lord Connor at the end of this corridor. I nearly forgot
that I’ve other tasks yet to carry out.”

The three of them wouldn’t have all fit in the scant space ahead,
so ′twas just as well she went on her own.

Besides, now she’d have no audience should she make a fool of
herself when she faced Connor again. “I’ll be fine,” she assured the young
knight. “Lord Connor will see that I leave here as safely as I came in.”

Sir Will nodded, handed her the lantern and hurried away.

Moira paused near the door, pondering what course to follow when
she reached Connor. Should she be cool, polite,
remote
?
She gave a quiet snort of laughter. As if she could! She’d yet to carry herself
as a proper lady ought, in Connor’s presence, at any rate. But the image of him
this morning, the vulnerability he couldn’t quite hide, had haunted her ever
since.

That, and the image of his near nakedness, the sun streaming over
his lean, muscular form. That memory alone sent heat flowing through her body.

She had no shame, that much was clear. She smoothed her hand over
her burgeoning belly, clanking the lantern against the stone wall in the
process. She’d do well to remember how she’d found herself in this condition… and what her interest in Connor FitzClifford might mean to his continued
safety.

“Moira, is that you?” Connor asked. The sound of loose debris
crunching beneath his boots came closer.

She turned slowly toward the door, using the time to collect
herself, to rid her expression of any trace of her unsettling thoughts. “Aye,
milord. I’ll be right there.”

He came into view then, hunched over to avoid the ceiling, a lamp
in his hand. When he reached her he straightened and smiled, his face alight with
excitement. “Come.” He took the lantern from her and set it in the doorway.

“I’ve something to show you.” He took her hand and led her back
the way he’d come.

They halted before the same mortared wall Connor had examined the
night before. He set the lantern on the floor and knelt. “If I’d looked more
closely last night, I’d have found this,” he said. He slipped the dagger from
his boot and used it to scrape at the mortar. She could see from the layer of
plaster dust covering the dirt floor that he’d been doing this before she
arrived. He stopped and turned to her. “Come and see.”

She moved the light aside and leaned closer. Connor picked up a
thin metal bar from the floor and used it to pry the stone from the wall—stone
no thicker than the width of his dagger blade. “Are they all like that?” she
asked. “Is it naught but a disguise?”

“Not all, but many.” He got up off his knees and forced another
stone from the wall. “Look at what lies beneath them.”

She touched the flat, plaster-covered surface, then drew her own
knife and scratched at the mortar until her blade scraped against metal and
wood. “′Tis a door,” she gasped. A very old door, to judge by the
splintery condition of the boards and the age-pitted iron holding it together.

“Here, let me take off the other stones,” Connor said.

She stepped back and gave him room to attack the rest of the facade
covering the wooden panel.

He removed all but the last row of stones along the bottom of the
door; surprisingly, the panel held. But a disquieting thought occurred to her
as he raised the bar to complete the job. “Connor,” she called, staying his
hand. “What if there is someone waiting on the other side?”

He shook his head, his dark eyes intense in the lantern’s glow.
“I’ve had guards mounted on the walls facing the headland, as well as along the
cliffs, since soon after I left here last night. I’m sure that whoever we heard
then is long gone, and I doubt anyone could get in now without being seen.”

“But shouldn’t we have someone in here—besides yourself—who can
fight? In case you’re wrong?”

He sighed. “Anyone there now is a fool. We haven’t been quiet.
For all they know, I’ve an army in here—though I could hold this position
myself with very little effort if necessary, while you go for help.”

She looked away and sought to overcome her uneasiness. He knew
better than she the ways of war, of defense. As he knew his own abilities.
She’d trusted him with all else in her life; she could trust him in this.

She met his gaze, imbuing her own with her confidence in him.
“Shall I see if I can find a way to open this?” she asked, pointing her knife
toward the area where a latch might be.

His eyes drew her in, held a warmth and approval she must surely
be imagining. But when he smiled, his expression told a similar tale. Had he
needed her approval? How could a man so strong, so skilled, have so little
belief in himself?

Those questions would have to wait for another time. For now,
she’d do all she could to show her faith in him. “Connor?”

“Aye.” He shoved aside the pile of rocks he’d removed. “Just
leave me room enough to take off these last few stones.”

Moira scraped at the mortar where she’d gauged the latch would
be, but found nothing beneath it save the wooden panels of the door. She tried
another spot, and once Connor had pried off the last of the facade, he used his
larger blade to chip at the plaster that filled the gap between the door and
its frame.

Connor’s anticipation grew as they uncovered more of the ancient
portal. He glanced down at Moira, scraping away with her small knife, and felt
a sense of pleasure that under these circumstances should have been completely
out of place. But right or wrong, the fact that Moira had accepted his
assessment of the situation, had cast off her uncertainty, made him want to
smile. The two of them working together felt right. That faced coupled with his
growing certainty that they’d found the way the MacCarthys planned to use to
conquer them … Perhaps they’d found the way to rout MacCarthy instead.

How could he help but smile?

He slid the dagger blade into the narrow space he’d cleared and
felt it catch against a piece of metal near the top of the door. “I think I’ve
found it,” he told her. Removing the blade from the gap, he began to scrape at
the thick layer of mortar that coated the upper half of the door.

Moira snatched the lantern from the floor and held it up near him.
“Do you want me to help?”

He glanced over at her and saw how tired she looked. By the
saints, he should never have sent Will for her; she should be in her chamber,
resting. But he knew she wouldn’t leave now. “Only by keeping the light here.”
She nodded, and he continued to carefully scrape away the plaster.

Finally he uncovered a lock—crude, but solid. “Now what?” he
asked as he used the knife point to clear the keyhole. “I doubt you’ve a key
for this.”

Moira handed him the lantern and unhooked the ring of keys from
her belt. “There’s nothing here to fit that,” she said. Passing him the keys,
she leaned close and peered at the lock, then held out her knife, hilt first,
to him. “This should work, don’t you think?” she asked, moving back from the
door.

He gave her back the lantern and ring of keys. “Aye.” His own
knife clutched in his left hand, hers in his right, he slid her slim blade into
the keyhole and, with hard-won patience, wriggled it about within the lock
until something snapped. “I hope that wasn’t your knife,” he muttered.

“It doesn’t matter if it is,” Moira replied.

“Ah, but it might—I don’t want the blade stuck in there.” Giving
the hilt a gentle turn, he gingerly slid the knife free.

He heard Moira sigh, and turned to find that she’d set the lantern
on the floor and stood resting against the far wall of the compact space, her
eyes closed. Two short strides brought him to her. “Are you all right?”

She opened her eyes, her lips curving into a smile. “Aye. I’m
just relieved—and trying not to hope too much. Perhaps there’s naught on the
other side of the door but solid rock.”

He checked the blade of her knife, surprisingly undamaged, and
slid it into the sheath on her belt before bending to shove his dagger into his
boot. Leaning closer to her, he smoothed the back of his fingers over the
velvety softness of her cheek. “If this turns out to be nothing, we’ll find
some other way to best them,” he assured her. “I promise you, Moira.” He
scanned her face once again in the flickering light. Though her skin looked
pale, her blue eyes held relief—and anticipation. Not willing to face the
temptation of her lips, he brushed a kiss across her brow. “Come on, let’s see
what we’ve uncovered.”

He stepped away, took up the narrow bar he’d used to pry off the
stones and wedged it into the crack between the door and the frame. “You’d
better stay back until I get this open.”

She nodded and moved off to the side. She’d drawn her knife,
though how she thought to use it, he couldn’t guess.

He gave the bar a hard shove and felt the door break free.
Plaster and splinters of wood filled the area, along with a cloud of dust that
blinded him. He felt a large body brush past him from beyond the door. Still
unable to see, he drew his dagger and spun around just as Moira screamed.

“Connor!” Moira shouted.

A man cried out in pain, then let loose a frantic rush of Gaelic,
too fast for Connor to understand.

Whatever he’d said didn’t matter, anyway—not when Moira might be
in danger. Connor swiped his sleeve across his eyes and tugged his dagger from
his boot as he lunged toward them.

“Domnal O’Neill,” Moira exclaimed. “By the saints, what are
you
doing here?”

Connor halted, blinking rapidly until he could see through the
thinning haze of dust. Another O’Neill? All he could tell through the murk was
that the man looked nigh as large as Aidan.

Connor’s vision cleared. O’Neill stepped away from Moira and held
out his left hand to her, palm up. “Look at this,” he whined. “You cut me,
Moira.”

“Moira, are you all right?”

“Aye,” she said, sounding vexed. “Ignore him, milord.”

She appeared unharmed, so Connor glanced over and peered through
the doorway. Naught but a cloud of dust. O’Neill was alone. Besides, would the
man be sniveling to his sister if he’d come with a war party? Connor gave a
grunt of disgust at the idea. Doubtful. Nonetheless, he’d best be cautious. He
shoved closed what was left of the door and braced the iron bar against it.

Turning to them, he saw that Moira had slouched down and now sat
on the filthy floor, her hands cupped protectively over her rounded belly. “You
said he didn’t harm you,” he growled. He grabbed O’Neill by the tunic, whirled
him away from his sister and held him pinned to the wall. Wisely, the young man
clamped his mouth shut and didn’t move.

She slowly stood, giving a muffled groan. “Moira?” Connor held
her brother to the wall, but focused his attention upon her.

“I’m fine, Connor, truly—no thanks to Domnal,” she added with
disgust. She brushed at the coating of gray dust covering her from head to toe,
to no avail. Pulling off her veil, she used the clean side to wipe off her
face, then sneezed. “′Tis a miracle he didn’t startle me into giving
birth right here.”

Connor tightened his grip and pressed O’Neill more firmly against
the stone wall. “Did you come alone?”

“Aye, milord.” O’Neill glanced over at his sister. “I’m sorry I
frightened you, Moira. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t realize ′twas so close
in here.”

Connor eased his hold and allowed O’Neill to slump down onto his
feet. “Do you swear you’ve no one with you?”

The youth—for Connor could see that O’Neill couldn’t be more than
sixteen—met his gaze without hesitation. “On our mother’s grave, milord,” he
murmured.

“Moira?” Connor asked. “Should I trust him?”

She took a step closer to her brother. “Aye.” To Connor’s
surprise, she reached down, unhooked the sword from her brother’s belt and held
it out for Connor to take. Even more startling to him, O’Neill made no protest,
his dirt-smeared face merely twisting into a resigned expression. “But
regardless of his honesty or lack of it, I suggest we leave here.”

Connor nodded. He’d just as soon get Moira out of the dust and
dirt; it couldn’t be good for her or the child. He needed to send someone down
to guard the doorway, as well. “You’ve the right of it,” he told her, tucking
her brother’s sword beneath his arm and reaching over to claim his knife, too.
He motioned for Moira to take the lantern and go ahead, before nudging O’Neill
into motion. “I’ll send Will and Sir Ivor down.”

O’Neill paused and turned to him. “You should close it up,
milord,” he said urgently. “If Hugh and Aidan come back . .
.
”

“You can tell me more once we’re out of here,” Connor said
quietly. “For now, I want your sister someplace safe.”

“′Tis all I want as well, milord.” He met Connor’s gaze,
his eyes intense. “Though I don’t know if such a place exists.”

Once they’d left the undercroft, Moira absently trudged along in
Connor’s wake as he sent laborers to block up the passageway, with Sir Will and
Sir Ivor to guard the site.

She glanced at her brother yet again, her mind awhirl with
reasons why Domnal might have been waiting on the other side of that door.
Although impatient to discover his intent, she also felt a definite
uncertainty. Whatever brought Domnal to Gerald’s Keep, it couldn’t be good.

And she didn’t know how much more bad news she could bear.

Although Connor had released his grip on Domnal before they left
the cellar, her brother stayed close without any urging that she could see—a
definite change from the defiant youth he’d been the last time they’d met.
However, the more she observed Domnal, the more she became convinced he was
frightened. Terrified, in fact. Though terrified of what, she hadn’t any idea.

The three of them were so filthy—covered in dirt and gray
dust—that ′twas almost funny. To her surprise, however, no one laughed,
or said a word, as they passed through the bailey and hall, though she heard a
wave of muffled laughter following in their wake. Perhaps ′twas Connor’s
presence, or his stern expression, that accounted for it.

He appeared oblivious to it all, his attention clearly focused
elsewhere. No doubt upon what to do next, or what he might learn from Domnal.

She hoped he didn’t expect much from her brother, however. Aidan
and Finan had never bothered to include the youngest O’Neill in any of their
plans, beyond using him and his astounding prowess at arms when it suited their
purpose to do so.

Much as they’d used her for their own gain, she realized. Mayhap ′twas
time for her to view Domnal in a different light.

Connor sent the lad into the solar ahead of them, then paused,
turning to lean back against the doorframe. “I never thought to ask, Moira—are
you sure you want us entering your rooms in this condition?” He glanced down at
his filthy clothing and her own, his mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Not that
you look much better,” he added, the glint of humor in his dark eyes tempering
his words.

The answering spark of amusement that coursed through her slashed
through the dismal murk clouding her mind and kindled a spark of hope within
her. Connor was here—he would help her, share whatever news Domnal brought, good
or bad. She felt her tension ease. “This is one of the more private places for
us to talk to him, to question him.” She reached past Connor and pushed the
door wide, flashing him a teasing smile. “Of course, you realize you’ll have to
sit on the floor.”

“Only if you do,” he murmured, ushering her into the room.

Domnal stood at the hearth, gazing down at the dying fire. To
Moira’s newly awakened notice, he looked filthy, cold—and more frightened than
when they’d left the undercroft. Good. Perhaps if they gave his apprehension a
bit longer to grow, he might be more truthful and forthright with them.

“Would you stir up the fire?” she asked Connor. “I’ll be back in
a moment.” He, too, cast a measuring look Domnal’s way before giving her a
slight nod.

She crossed the solar and entered her room, calling for Brigit as
she closed the door.

The maid, dozing in a chair by the fire, started. “Beg pardon,
milady,” she said, then glanced up and gasped.
“Lady Moira!”
She lurched to her feet and hurried to her side. “Sit
down—nay, you’d better lie down—at once,” she scolded. Before Moira could stop
her, Brigit took her by the arm and led her toward the bed. “Look at you!
You’re filthy, milady. What happened to you?” she asked, her worried gaze
sweeping over Moira from head to toe. “Are you all right?”

Moira gently freed herself and halted before the maid could nudge
her down onto the mattress. “I’m fine, Brigit,” she reassured her. She took
Brigit’s work-worn hand in hers and urged her to sit on the edge of the bed.
“There’s no need to ruin the bedcovers with all this dirt. I’ll simply wash my
face and hands and go back to the solar. Lord Connor is there with Domnal—”

“Domnal?” Brigit jumped to her feet. “Your brother?”

Moira picked up the pitcher from the table and poured water into
the basin. “Aye, my brother.” She wet a cloth and wiped her face with it, then
rinsed her hands.

“What is he doing here?” Brigit took the grubby rag from her and
handed her a towel.

“I don’t know.” She dried her face and shook out the towel,
frowning at the smudged linen. She was still dirty, but couldn’t take time to
do more about it. “We found him in the passageway off the undercroft of the
keep.”

“Do you think your brother has sent him to spy?” The old woman’s
face went pale, and her voice rose with every word.

“Hush,” Moira warned. “Do you want him to hear you?”

“If he didn’t come in through the front gate,” she whispered,
“they’re bound to have sent him to do you harm. What if they sent him to take
the babe?”

“Nay, I cannot believe that of him.” She laid a hand on Brigit’s
arm to calm her, casting a glance toward the closed door. “I don’t know why
he’s come—or how he got here, truth to tell. And the longer I linger in here,
the less chance I have to find out.” She smoothed her loosened hair back from
her face. “Send Padrig for food, drink and some water for the men to wash. I’ve
let Domnal stew long enough.”

As soon as the door closed behind Moira, Connor went to the
hearth and knelt to build up the fire, taking advantage of the lad’s proximity
to observe him.

Now that he saw Domnal O’Neill in the clear light of day, he
couldn’t mistake his resemblance to Moira. Unlike Aidan, Domnal had bright blue
eyes and straight dark hair, and despite the lad’s scraggly attempt at a beard,
the similarity of their features showed through.

Though Connor had never seen that look of fear on Moira’s face,
despite the gravity of her circumstances.

He knew why she’d retreated to her chamber—one reason, at any
rate, and one he agreed with. She wanted to build Domnal’s fear. Considering
how her brothers had treated her, Connor wouldn’t have blamed her if she drew
out Domnal’s torment in retribution for past hurts, but he doubted that was her
intent. More likely she hoped to frighten her brother into telling them
everything he knew.

Raised voices sounded from Moira’s chamber, though he couldn’t
distinguish the words. Still, ′twas enough to make Domnal jump, and his
face—where he’d wiped away some of the dust—grew pale. “How fares my sister,
milord? Is she well?” His voice held concern. Was it sincere, or naught but a
ploy?

Either way, Connor’s answer would be the same. The lad should be
made aware of what
effect her
family’s schemes had on
her. “The babe tires her, but ′tis the press of worry over what the
MacCarthys—and her brothers—might do,” he added with a pointed look, “that
weighs heaviest upon her.”

Domnal turned away. Had his words sunk in? Connor wondered. He
hoped they had. Kneeling on the raised hearth, he waited until the new layer of
peat he’d laid upon the embers caught fire. He tried to mute the curiosity
nagging at him, but ′twas futile; he wanted—nay,
needed
—to know what brought Domnal O’Neill to Gerald’s Keep in such
secrecy.