L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (25 page)

She dozed briefly, between contractions. Time had no
meaning—indeed, it seemed she had been awake for days—though she heard the
sounds of the keep coming to life. They were more subdued than usual, perhaps
because not everyone had recovered from the past night’s battle and the
drinking that had followed. Whatever the reason, she wished for more noise, so
that her cries or screams, should she prove as cowardly as she feared, might be
disguised by the sounds of day-to-day life.

She started awake when another spasm, more intense than the
others, rolled through her body and settled, hot and painful, low in her belly.
Catching hold of the leather straps Brigit had tied to the headboard, Moira
pulled herself up and concentrated on willing herself somewhere else in her
mind, as Connor had taught her, until the worst of it eased.

But there’d be no wishing this one
away, that
much became clear to her at once. Muttering curses she hadn’t realized she
knew, she gritted her teeth and tried to breathe as Brigit had suggested.

“I hate this!” she shrieked, seizing the straps so hard her nails
bit into them. “Brigit, I need you right now!” she screamed as loudly as she
could, since the maid had left the chamber.

Silence met her plea.

As soon as the pain began to fade, Moira crawled to the edge of
the mattress and, clutching the bedpost for support, dragged herself to her
feet. Her shift had twisted around her waist, leaving her legs exposed to
midthigh
, and the sheet had wrapped about one ankle,
tethering her in place and throwing her off balance. “Everyone promises to
stay, to help me, but where
are they
when I need
them?” she grumbled. “Probably off swilling ale and telling lies.” Since she
couldn’t seem to loosen the sheet from around her ankle, she jerked it free of
the mattress and sent herself flying.

She landed hard on her backside on the floor. “By the Virgin,
when I get my hands on Connor FitzClifford,” she screeched, “I’ll—”

Strong arms grabbed her from behind, and a hand clamped over her
mouth to stifle her in
midscream
. “You’ll do what?”
Connor asked, his voice amused.

Moira caught him by the wrist and jerked his hand away. “Where
have you been?” she gasped.

His arms about her waist, he helped her to her feet and turned
her to face him.

And Father Thomas.

A wave of shame washed over her, making her tremble and flush.

“I’ve brought the priest,” Connor said, his tone wry. “To
convince you to be my bride.”

Face still flaming, Moira tugged the end of the sheet off the bed
and dragged the material up in front of her. She caught hold of Connor’s shirt
with her other hand and pulled him closer, leaning toward him. “Could we
discuss this alone?” she whispered.

Connor glanced at her, then back at Father Thomas—whose face
looked nigh as red as hers felt—and nodded. He gently detached her hand from
his shirt. “Will you excuse us, Father?” he asked, going to the door and
opening it.

“Of course. I’ll wait in the corridor, milord,” the priest said,
and left, closing the door quietly.

Connor scooped her up and laid her in the bed. “What are you
doing wandering around?” he scolded. She drew the sheet, still clutched tightly
in her hand, up to her chin and settled back against the bolsters. He scanned
the chamber and frowned. “Where is Brigit?”

“I don’t know,” Moira muttered. “I fell asleep, and when I woke,
everyone had left.” To her shame, she felt like pouting. The sensation of pain
building within her wiped that thought from her mind in no time, replacing it
with panic. She grabbed Connor by the arm and tugged until he climbed up onto
the bed with her. “It’s happening again,” she whimpered. “And the last one has
scarce faded away.”

He cuddled her against him, rubbing her belly and whispering to
her until the pain began to fade. Then he tried to move away from her, but she
held him fast.

“I need to call for Brigit,” he told her, bending to press a kiss
on her brow.

“Aye, we need her,” she agreed. She met his gaze, looked deep
into the warm brown depths and saw nothing but good in him. “But you’d better
bring Father Thomas back as well. I don’t believe we have much time to wed
before the babe arrives.”

Connor stared at Moira’s face, her eyes, and gave a sigh of
relief. “You
will
marry me.”

She nodded. “You were right—about so many things.” He tried once
again to slip off the bed, but again she held him back. “I want you to know,
Connor, that . .
. ”
She lowered her gaze for a
moment. When she glanced at up at him again, her eyes held so much emotion he
could not mistake it. “I am marrying you because I want to be wed to you—not
because of the babe, or Hugh, or anything else. Only for you, Connor.”

His heart thundering in his chest, Connor held her close,
savoring her words, her nearness—so much more than he’d ever hoped to have in
his life. But he couldn’t accept the truth of her words until she knew the
truth about him.

He raised his head and turned her face toward him. “I should tell
you about—”

She covered his mouth with her hand. “You need not tell me
anything unless you wish to, but you might as well wait till later. Whatever
you have to say—save that you don’t want me—doesn’t matter right now. Tell me
later, once we’re wed, once the babe is born—when we’ve more time to talk.” She
slid her hand up, running her fingers over his stubble-covered cheek. “I wish
to marry
you
, Connor FitzClifford—the
man I’ve come to know. Our lives begin now. The past doesn’t exist unless we
want it to. Do you still wish to marry me?”

He laughed. “You know I do.”

She nudged him toward the side of the bed. “Then what are you
waiting for?” She clutched at her belly. “You’d better bring Father Thomas back
at once.”

Father Thomas no sooner declared Moira and Connor man and wife
than Brigit banished him—along with Domnal, Sir Ivor and Sir Will, the
witnesses—to the hall. “Go on, swill some ale and stay out of the way,” she
directed. “You’ll need to drink enough for his lordship, since he’s decided to
stay with my lady.”

Moira accepted their hastily offered good wishes and tried not to
cry out until the door closed behind them. ′Twas a near thing. As soon as
they were gone, however, Connor clambered onto the mattress and leaned back
against the headboard, gathering her into his arms. He held her through the
endless pain, his cheek nestled against hers, and didn’t flinch as she dug her
fingers into the brawny strength of his forearms. Panting, she slumped back
once the spasm eased. “Thank you, Husband,” she whispered, savoring the word.

“Thank
you
, milady, for
making me the happiest of men.” He laced his fingers with hers and brought her
hand to his lips. “Scarce a husband, and already a father,” he said with a
laugh, cradling his hand over her belly. “You’re giving me so much, Moira. I
swear I’ll protect you and our child—our children, for I doubt this will be our
only one,” he added, chuckling again. “Always.”

She held his words in her heart as the pains came one atop the
other, till she wondered how she’d bear them. But Connor held her through each
one, sharing his strength, his humor, as she pushed their babe into the world.

“You have a daughter, milady, milord,” Brigit cried as she eased
the child onto a blanket. After wiping the babe clean, she placed her in
Moira’s outstretched arms. “She’s a beauty, milady!”

Her dark blue eyes staring, unfocused, at them, their daughter
began to howl, her tiny fingers clenched into fists. They looked her over,
marveling at her fingers and toes, at the mass of dark curls clustered on her
head.

Tears welled in Moira’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Despite
all the times she’d imagined this moment, used it to sustain her through the
long, difficult months, she hadn’t realized how deeply she would feel its
intensity—nor that Connor would be there to share it with her.

“So quiet—just like her mother,” Connor teased as the babe
continued to wail. He leaned over Moira’s shoulder and traced his finger across
one soft pink cheek. “I can see I’ll be busy once she’s grown, chasing away an
army of suitors. What will you name her?” he asked, tucking the blanket up around
the babe’s shoulders.

“I thought to call her Brenna. ′Twas my mother’s name,”
Moira added. “What do you think?”

“I think that Lady Brenna FitzClifford is a fine name,” he said.
He shifted, until he met her gaze. His dark eyes suspiciously damp, he took her
mouth in a heartbreakingly tender kiss. “Our daughter is lovely. You’ve done
well, milady,” he murmured after he broke away.

Once she caught her breath, she stroked her hand through Connor’s
disordered hair and gazed down at their child. “Aye, milord—that we have.”

The next two days flew by in a daze for Moira, as she sought to
regain her strength, care for Brenna and convince her stubborn husband that she
should be included in whatever plans he had to deal with Hugh MacCarthy and her
brother Aidan.

It took her a solid day’s coaxing before Connor would tell her
what he had in mind—and even then, she’d had to resort to wheedling information
out of Sir Will. When the knight discovered she’d misled him—or tricked him, as
he would have it—about her knowledge of Connor’s scheme, he’d become so angry
he refused to tell her anything else at all.

It amazed her that she could feel such love for Connor—for such
was the depth of her feelings for him, it could not be anything else but
love—and wish to throttle him at the same time. How could one man be so
devastatingly tender one moment and so pigheaded the next?

But she’d not endured the long months between Lord Brien’s death
and Connor’s arrival without learning something about stubbornness herself. Her
husband would learn soon enough that he could not ignore his wife’s will, she
vowed.

When he did finally agree, she continued to rant for a bit before
his words sank into her brain. A tide of heat rose to her cheeks when she
realized what she’d done; if not for the fact that Connor sat next to her on
the bed, trapping her in place, she’d have tried to escape him and his sharp
gaze.

As well as his knowing grin. “Go on,” he coaxed. “I’d like to
hear what other arguments you planned to use to convince me.” He reached out
and toyed with the end of her braid. “Such foreknowledge might be the only way
I’ll have a chance to marshal my own arguments the next time.” Giving the
ribbon tied round her braid a tug and sliding it loose, he added, “Not that I
expect I’ll win then, either.”

She poked him in the stomach, not that it made any impression
upon him. “So, Husband, since you’ve decided I may know your plans, do you
intend to tell me now?”

He gave a huge sigh. “If I must.” He caught her hands in his.
“Who knows what you might do to me otherwise?”

Thus it was that Connor found himself escorting his wife, along
with his troops and those of Sir Robert de Montfort, to a meeting with Hugh
MacCarthy and Aidan O’Neill. They’d agreed to meet in a large open area not far
from Gerald’s Keep for the proposed purpose of coming to terms over the release
of Connor’s “prisoners”—Kieran MacCarthy and Domnal O’Neill.

The promise of an alliance with Connor, as well as Lord Rannulf
FitzClifford, had been enough to sway Sir Robert into lending his aid. After
the way the MacCarthys had wreaked havoc in the vicinity, Connor had no doubt
that de Montfort would be happy to thwart Hugh MacCarthy any way he could.

Kieran and Domnal seemed glad to be involved in stopping the
madness that Dermot MacCarthy had set in motion and his brother seemed
determined to bring to fruition. In fact, the two young men had contributed a
great deal to the scheme.

As their party crested the last hill before the meeting place,
Connor glanced behind him at Moira. Mounted pillion behind Will, she looked
tired, but he couldn’t miss the trace of exhilaration in her bright blue eyes.
He wished he dared allow her to ride with him, but he didn’t know exactly how
the meeting might unfold. MacCarthy might come after him, and Connor didn’t
want to endanger her more.

Nor would it be wise for both Brenna’s parents to be together,
lest they make one easy target.

MacCarthy’s troops streamed over the opposite hillside and onto
the plain, spreading out in a line facing Connor’s party. Will kept Moira
behind them, surrounded by a well-armed group of fighters—the best warriors
from Gerald’s Keep, any one of whom would gladly lay down his life for their
valiant lady. Domnal and Kiernan were equally well guarded, encircled by the
best of the men Connor had brought from l’Eau Clair.

Connor urged his mount forward, Sir Ivor and Sir Robert on either
side of him, the line his men had formed closing up behind them. He singled out
the bearded Irishman he’d battled outside Gerald’s Keep, for he knew in his
bones the man must be Hugh MacCarthy—had known since they’d fought. The fact
that he rode flanked by Aidan and a man who was obviously Aidan’s brother Finan
simply confirmed his assumption.

“So you’re Connor FitzClifford,” MacCarthy shouted. “If I’d known
that the other night, I’d have made certain you left the field in a shroud.”

Connor gave a wry laugh. The posturing fool! “You had your
chance, MacCarthy, but you’re not up to the task. If you could have done so,
you would have,” he said bluntly.

MacCarthy waved away Connor’s comment. “I’ve come for my kin,
Norman, mine and the
O’Neills
’. The babe and its
mother, and our kinsmen you took captive.” MacCarthy looked past Connor.
“Moira! Show yourself, lass,” he bellowed. “Come—you’ve no need to hide behind
them now that your own kinsmen have come for you.”

Connor held his breath and prayed. He’d warned Moira that
MacCarthy might try to speak with her, had cautioned her to choose her words
with care should she decide to reply. But he really didn’t know what she’d say.

“I’m already with my kinsmen, Hugh—the only ones who matter to
me,” she cried. “Can you not give up this senseless scheme of Dermot’s and
leave us be?”

MacCarthy’s face reddened and his eyes grew cold. “′Tis my
duty to carry out my brother’s wishes. And ′tis
your
brothers’ decision for you to join us, to give over yourself
and the child—and Gerald’s Keep—into our hands. Once you do, all will be as it
should be.” He urged his mount forward, fixing his gaze upon Connor, and spat
on the ground. “And these damned Normans can go back where they belong.”

Connor slid his dagger from his boot and held it loosely in his
hand, his elbow resting upon the saddlebow. “We
are
where we belong,” he said in an even voice. “This land is my
brother’s. It was my mother’s and my grandfather’s before that. We will not
give it up,” he said flatly. “Nor will I give over to you my wife and
daughter.”

“Your wife?” MacCarthy roared. “Daughter? You’ve wed her, and the
child has been born? By Christ’s eyeballs—” Aidan reached over and grabbed
MacCarthy by the back of the tunic when he lunged toward Connor “—she could be
a widow in a trice, Norman.”

Connor remained at his ease, merely glancing over his shoulder at
his force—more numerous and far better armed than MacCarthy’s. “She will not. I
intend to be a good and faithful husband to Moira for many years to come. I’ll
see to it,” he vowed.

MacCarthy sank back into his saddle, his face still contorted
with rage. “Then show the child to me, that I may judge for myself whether ′tis
my brother’s daughter,” he demanded.

“She is
my
daughter,
MacCarthy. And Moira is my wife. My family remains with me.” Connor didn’t
bother to hide his disdain. “Admit it—you’ve lost it all, not that you ever had
it. Gerald’s Keep is not Moira’s to give to you, nor would she do so in any
case. Did you truly believe you could abuse her and her people, cause them to
live in a state of siege for months, then expect her, without hesitation, to
give her entire world into your hands at your bidding?”

“Not likely, Hugh,” Moira called. “′Tis nigh impossible, in
fact. I suggest you give up now, for my daughter shall never be yours, no
matter who fathered her.”

MacCarthy growled. “I simply want to see Gerald’s
Keep
returned to my family, my blood.”

Connor shook his head. “I’ve heard many things about you, Hugh
MacCarthy, but I’d not heard you were a stupid man.” He leaned forward,
investing his expression, his voice, with the steely determination that had
brought him from weakling to warrior in a few short years. “I know your plans,
MacCarthy—all of them. I also know you haven’t the men to carry them out, now
that you’ve lost the element of surprise. And lest it escape your notice, I
have the support of the FitzCliffords and of the earl of Pembroke behind me. If
you take Gerald’s Keep, they’ll harry you until you’ll be glad to hand it back
to them. You cannot win,” he stated. “′Tis up to you to decide what you
want to lose.”