L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (8 page)

The door from outside opened with a thud, heralding Henry’s
reappearance and silencing the revelry once again. The guard stood aside to
allow a tall, bearded stranger into the hall, followed by two more of Connor’s
men. One pulled the door closed while the others escorted the stranger toward
the dais.

The messenger, his dark brown garb worn, his reddish-brown hair
and beard curling wildly around his face, strode through the crowd as though he
hadn’t a care in the world.

He stopped before them, standing at his ease with the three
guards ranged behind him.

Lady Moira gasped and tried to rise, but Connor remained seated
and held the bench firmly in place close to the table. He leaned toward her and
whispered, “Stay where you are, milady. There’s no reason for you to greet
MacCarthy’s man by leaping to your feet. I doubt he’s worthy of that honor.”
She clutched the edge of the table with one hand, her knuckles white with
strain. Her other hand lay atop the mound of her belly—which moved as he
watched. By the saints! Did the babe feel her tension? “Besides, it cannot be
good for a woman in your condition to be jumping about like a mountain goat,”
he added, hoping his poor jest might ease the tension that held her wound so
tightly.

“You don’t understand, milord,” she said, her voice low, frantic.
Her eyes were fixed on the man standing below them.

Ignoring the guards, he took a step closer, grinned and made a
mocking bow. “Is this the way you greet me when ′tis been so long since
last we met?”

Who was he?
Connor
shoved back the bench and stood, ready to vault over the table if the man
didn’t change his attitude soon.

“And who might this be?” the man asked, all signs of humor gone
in an instant. “Don’t tell me you’ve replaced Brien—and Dermot—in your bed
already, sister dear.”

“′Tis my brother, Aidan O’Neill.” Her body shaking, Lady
Moira braced her hands on the table and slowly levered herself to her feet. The
glare she sent her brother should have felled him where he stood, but his grin
widened in response. “Aidan, this is Lord Connor FitzClifford, my overlord’s
brother.”

O’Neill moved forward, hand outstretched. Connor ignored the
overture and remained where he stood, lowering his own hand to rest on his
sword hilt. Henry and another guard came forward, their faces dark with anger,
grabbed O’Neill by the arms and tugged him back.

Taking his time, to give himself a chance to cool his temper,
Connor made his way around the table, then stopped in front of it. The urge to
leap off the dais and grab O’Neill, to throttle him till his smug smile
disappeared, was strong—too strong. Lady Moira might not appreciate it if he
strangled her brother, despite the fool’s disrespect toward her.

Instead he leaned back against the table, his hand still resting
on his sword. “′Tis your good fortune that you’re Lady Moira’s kin, else
I’d slay you here and now,” he growled. “I just might do so anyway.” He glanced
back at Lady Moira, weighing her response—not that he’d take the words back.

She appeared stunned and weary, nearly swaying on her feet; he
doubted she had even noticed what he’d said. He’d guess the shock of her
brother’s arrival, coupled with what the lout had said to her—loudly enough for
everyone in the hall to hear—accounted for her reaction.

Connor turned his back on O’Neill and rounded the table again.
“Milady, are you well?” he asked, taking her by the arm. The expression in her
pain-filled eyes struck him like a knife to the heart. “Sit, lady. Rest.” She
resisted his efforts to ease her down onto the bench. “Would you rather retire
to your solar or your chamber?” he asked quietly. “We need not continue this
discussion here. ′Tis no one’s business but your own.”

She turned so they faced away from the others. “Thank you,
milord. The solar will be fine,” she whispered. “And I’ll go there on my own
two feet,” she added when he would have lifted her in his arms.

He nodded. He understood how important it was for her to remain
in control, especially in light of her brother’s insults. Connor stepped away
from her as she turned toward the crowd watching them in near silence. “Henry,
please bring my brother to my solar,” she ordered. “And post a guard in the
corridor.”

“Aye, milady.” Henry bowed, then motioned for the guards to carry
out her command. They tugged O’Neill around and urged him toward the wide path
that had opened up in the midst of the gathering, leading straight to the
stairs at the opposite end of the hall.

Lady Moira drew in a deep breath and clapped her hands—not that
she needed to capture anyone’s attention. All eyes had shifted back to the dais
once O’Neill disappeared from sight into the stairwell. “We gathered here to celebrate.
Please, let the revelry continue.” After a discordant start, the musicians
struck up a lively tune that was swiftly accompanied by the hum of renewed
conversation.

The others seated at the high table had remained silent
throughout the byplay, but now Will rose and drew Connor aside. “What would you
have me do, milord?”

Connor glanced about the chamber, his gaze coming to rest upon
d’Athée’s
satisfied expression. While he doubted d’Athée
had had any part in bringing O’Neill here, that he’d enjoyed the man’s insults
to Lady Moira was obvious. “Send Padrig to make certain Henry kept a strong
guard posted, and have him learn what he can about how O’Neill came here,” he
said in a low voice. “Send word to the guards along the
cliffside
to redouble their vigilance. You stay in the hall and keep watch over the
revelers,” he added, with a meaningful glance at Sir Ivor. “Lady Moira has
worries enough without more being heaped upon her.”

“Do you need any help upstairs?”

He shook his head. “With three guards there already? You’ve a
poor opinion of my abilities.”

Will grinned. “Nay, milord. ′Tis just that I hate to miss
any of the excitement.”

“I doubt it will be exciting,” Connor said wryly. “Maddening,
I’ve no doubt. But Lady Moira’s presence should be sufficient to keep me from
strangling her brother—unless, of course, she decides she wants me to.”

“The bastard deserves it,” Will said, his smile gone, his voice
cold. “Simply for what he said to her, never mind anything else he might have
done.” He raked his hand through his hair. “But since she’s a gentle lady,
she’ll not let you harm him.”

“You might be surprised,” Connor said, recalling Moira’s
determination to defend her child. If she thought her brother—or
anyone—represented a threat to the babe, she’d do whatever necessary to protect
it.

He’d do well to remember that himself, should he and Lady Moira
disagree about what was best for her.

He clapped Will on the back and gave him a push toward the table.
“Go on, keep them busy while I find out why O’Neill came here.”

Will caught sight of a buxom maidservant headed their way with a
platter of food. “I’ll do my best, milord,” he said. His grin restored, he
motioned Padrig to his side.

Satisfied that Will would keep everything here well in hand,
Connor left the hall.

Moira stood in the corridor outside her solar and waited for Lord
Connor. Only the guard’s presence beside her door kept her from slumping
against the plaster wall and giving in to the despair enveloping her.

If she sought refuge within her bedchamber, she’d never find the
courage to leave it while Aidan remained within Gerald’s Keep. No matter how
much she dreaded—and needed—to hear what her eldest brother, her least
favorite, had to say.

Why had Aidan come here? Why now? Henry had said the messenger
came from the MacCarthys. Did this mean her brothers had decided to join forces
with her enemy once again?

Anything was possible with the three of them. If they believed
they’d gain some advantage from such a scheme, they’d forge an alliance with
the devil himself.

Well she knew the lengths they’d go to get what they wanted. When
they’d decided ′twas necessary for them to form a connection with the
Normans who’d risen to power in Munster, they’d seen her wed to Lord Brien.

Not that it had done them much good, she thought dryly.

Her husband felt they were too wild, too erratic to be of much
use to him. He’d thrown that fact in her face more and more often as the years
passed, barren years when she did not provide him with the heir he’d married
her to gain.

A chill ran through her as she recalled Lord Brien’s last months.
She rubbed her hands over her arms, but the usually soothing motion could not
chase the bone-deep cold away.

When he’d first realized she was with child … ′twas
fortunate for her he’d been too ill to rise from his bed, else he’d surely have
struck her dead. How he’d ranted about old warhorses and young stallions,
claiming ′twas her fault his seed had fallen on fallow ground while
MacCarthy’s had ripened.

His words had embedded themselves in her mind to taunt her,
making her wonder again and again if there could be any truth to them.

Was everything that had occurred her fault?

As time passed, her husband’s ire had abated. Though he had never
apologized for his accusations, eventually they ceased. The last month or two
before his death—as her belly grew bigger, making every glimpse of her a
reminder of all that had happened—he’d changed his stance completely. In both
word and deed he’d claimed her child as his own.

What should have been a blessing, however, felt more to her like
a curse, for it became a constant reminder of her
guilt.

The noise rising from the hall masked the sound of Lord Connor’s
footsteps on the stairs. She looked up and he was there, standing at the top of
the steps, watching her.

Though she wanted to look away from his probing glance, she met
his gaze, raised her chin in challenge.

Pray God her thoughts had not shown themselves upon her face,
else he’d know all her secrets.

“I thought you would have gone inside by now,” he said, closing
the distance between them, his eyes still focused on her with uncomfortable
intensity.

“I’m too big a coward,” she said. “I’ve no wish to meet him
alone.”

Lord Connor came forward and took her arm, the warmth of his
touch soothing, lending her strength. “You need not speak to him. If you’d
rather, I can question him about why he’s come. Though I admit I’d find your
presence a help.” He gazed down at her, his expression apologetic. “It’s not my
intention to insult your family, but your brother doesn’t strike me as
trustworthy. Since you know him, you may be able to judge if he’s telling the
truth.”

“I suppose such a miracle is possible, but I wouldn’t depend upon
it.”

“That he’d be truthful, or that you’d be able tell if he lied?”
he asked. “He’s your brother—wouldn’t you know?”

“If you have the unfortunate pleasure of coming to know my
brother better, you’ll realize that fact matters not a whit.” Her laugh sounded
bitter, as close an emotion to what she felt toward Aidan as any. “Indeed, if
he comes to know
you
better, ′twill
only supply him with more weapons to use against you.”

“Then I hope you’ll come in with me now,” he said, drawing her
along with him to the door. “For I know your opinion will prove useful.”

Taking a deep breath to calm her quaking stomach, she gave him a
weak smile. “Such flattery, milord. Though in this instance, your need
dovetails well with my desire.” He raised an eyebrow in question. “I want to
know what he’s doing here, why he’s come now.”

He nodded and raised the latch, but hesitated before opening the
door. “Do you want me to go in first?”

She didn’t understand why he asked, but as she weighed his
serious expression, she realized what he meant. “Nay—he’ll not harm me, with
you and two guards here. His tongue was ever his favorite weapon, milord. I
assure you, I’m used to it.”

“As you wish.” Lord Connor pushed open the door and stood back so
she could enter the solar.

Two branches of candles had been lighted, and the fire in the
hearth sent off the homey scent of burning peat. The chamber should have felt
welcoming and cheerful, but the scene laid out before her made her want to
scream with frustration, not smile with pleasure.

Aidan sat sprawled at the head of the table, his chair tipped back
on two legs, one booted foot resting atop the fine polished tabletop. He held a
goblet in his hand and wore a taunting grin on his face.

′Twas just as she’d imagined; he’d make himself comfortable
anywhere, whether he was welcome or not.

Henry stood by the window across the room, his hand clutched
about the hilt of his sword and his face twisted into a scowl as he stared
fixedly at Aidan, while the other guard, his visage emotionless, maintained a
position just inside the door.

Aidan raised the goblet in salute, then tipped it back and
drained it. “Moira, my darling little sister. Not so little now, though, I
see.” He scanned her from head to toe, his grin changing to a leer. “You
have
been busy since I saw you last.” He
swung his foot off the table and thumped the chair legs down on the floor. “The
brat you carry must be slowing you down. I thought you’d never get here.”
Banging the empty cup onto the table, he belched and reached for the ewer of
wine set before him. “I’d think you’d be eager to see me, after all our time
apart.”

For a brief moment she considered ignoring his crudity, but she
knew how much worse he could get—especially once he was drunk. Best if she
stopped him now, if possible, before he had the opportunity to show himself to
be a bigger fool than he’d already done.

She crossed the room and snatched the pitcher of wine from his
hand. “As always, Aidan, you abuse my good nature and expect me to thank you
for it.”