Wild Angel (41 page)

Ronan had slid her sodden shirt over her head before
Triona could shriek again, her breasts bared to his admiring gaze. But he didn’t
stand there looking at her for long, opting instead for sweeping her into his
arms and tossing her onto the bed.

"What of our hot bath?" she blurted, made
breathless as he straddled her hips, his eyes blazing into hers like molten
silver. "You must be chilled from being so long in the rain—"

"With a wild one like you beneath me?" he cut
in huskily, bending down to tease a roused nipple with his tongue. As Triona
arched beneath him, he laughed, a deliciously wicked sound that excited her as
much as his suckling. After he’d played with her breasts for a heart-stopping
moment longer, he lifted his dark head to stare into her eyes.

"You’ll keep me warm, Triona. I’ve no doubt of it.
Now since you’re giving things away, I’d like another one of those kisses. . .
."

He didn’t have to say more, Triona wrapping her arms
around his neck and blissfully obliging him.

Chapter 37

THE FAINT RAP came at the door an all too short two
hours later, Triona snuggling closer to Ronan as a female servant’s voice
called out, "I was sent by the cook, Lord. All is in readiness at the
hall."

"We will attend shortly," he called back,
turning his head to brush a kiss on Triona’s brow. But she raised her chin so
he caught the tip of her nose instead, which made him chuckle. "I fear,
beautiful lady, that it’s time to rise."

"I’m staying right here." Triona threw a slim
leg over his thigh as if she could pin him down. To entice him further, she
rubbed her toes up and down his hard calf, nestling against him even closer. "Supper
will just have to go on without us.

"Not this night," he murmured, though his
deep voice held regret. "My people need to see that all is well between
us, Triona. These past five days have been hard on everyone, not just
ourselves
."

She sighed, knowing he was making perfect sense but not
wanting this wondrous time together to end.

"We have only to stay an hour or so, Triona,"
he whispered into her ear as if reading her mind. "Everyone will
understand if we slip away." He slid his hand down the curve of her back
and playfully squeezed her bottom. "They’ll understand that we have other
things to do."

She smiled, but she was still reluctant to leave him.
At least until he tweaked her bottom—and not so gently!—making her gasp and
spring from the bed.

"Ronan, I’ll have a bruise!"

"Then I’ll be sure to massage it for you," he
said wickedly, rising. Yet he didn’t get far, staring at her in so lusty a
manner that she was certain he was reconsidering stepping even one foot from
their room. But finally he turned away and went to his clothes chest, the
decision clearly costing him for the many times he glanced at her as he pulled
out fresh garments.

Triona, meanwhile, swept up her damp cloak and wrapped
it snugly around herself, then headed for the door.

"Triona?"

She half turned, expecting his query. "My clothes
are in the other room."

"And they’ll be moved into this room come morning,"
he said, frowning. But Triona had expected that, too, so she threw him a
teasing smile.

"Aye, then you can watch me both dress and
undress." As his frown eased just as she had hoped, Triona was struck by a
sudden idea that filled her with nervous excitement. "You don’t have to
wait for me, Ronan. I’ll meet you at the feasting-hall."

"You’ll do no such thing," he began. "I
want us to walk in together."

"Please, Ronan. I’ve a surprise for you, but if
you insist on waiting, you’ll spoil it."

She lingered only long enough for him to nod
reluctantly,
then
she hurried from the room, her heart
racing. Her idea was so silly, really, but she wanted to please him. And she’d
thought of the perfect way, spurred on by the memory of how he’d looked at her
that first night she’d entered his hall . . .

Conn’s tail thunking heavily upon the floor drew Triona’s
attention to the hearth; she took a moment to go over and give her wolfhound a
pat.

"Poor dog, I don’t blame you for hiding back here
out of the fray," she murmured, stroking his ears. "But all’s well
now, I promise. So get up with you and go see Ronan. Mayhap he’ll let you
accompany him to the hall for a bit of supper. Go on. Find Ronan."

As Conn heaved himself to his feet and obliged her,
Triona went to her former room, feeling guilty that she’d been paying so little
heed to her pets of late. Her poor Ferdiad least of all.

Deciding that she would ask Ronan if they might take
her beautiful falcon on a hunt tomorrow, Triona turned the key in the lock, the
room lit softly with oil lamps as she entered. She was pleased to see Caitlin
nestled in
bed,
Maeve curled into a sleek white ball
on the young woman’s lap and purring contentedly.

"I see you’ve found a friend," Triona said as
she closed the door behind her, Caitlin throwing her a welcoming smile that was
truly dazzling.

"Three friends, Triona. You, Aud, Maeve . . ."
The young woman paused, a becoming pink blush suffusing her cheeks. "Well,
four friends."

Realizing that Caitlin meant Niall, Triona nodded but
said nothing more. She had only to remember Ronan’s fearful wrath to know that
would be akin to playing with fire. And for that reason she decided to tell her
no more about Maire either, and the other way around. She imagined if the two
young women ever met, they’d like each other well enough to give Ronan another
fit.

Instead, Triona checked to see that the window
coverings were well drawn against the clansmen standing guard outside and then
went to her clothes chest, thinking guiltily that she’d been a ninny to feel
jealous about Caitlin. How could a man not look twice at such rare beauty? With
her delicate features and golden hair, Caitlin MacMurrough appeared more an
angel than any woman Triona had ever seen.

"I came to change for supper," she said,
lifting carefully from the chest the emerald green gown she was supposed to
have worn at her wedding.

"What? No shirt and trousers this night?"

Triona blushed at Caitlin’s gentle ribbing, suddenly
feeling a bit ridiculous. Here she’d always sworn up and down how much she
hated gowns, and now she was actually eager to wear one. But before she could
say a word, Caitlin had climbed from the bed and hastened to her side.

"I think it’s wonderful you and the O’Byrne have
reconciled, Triona. Aud told me. And you’ll look so lovely for him in that
gown. Let me help you."

As Caitlin drew a finely textured camise from the
chest, Triona was touched that the young woman could be so giving after the
rough treatment she’d received at Ronan’s hands.

"Here, put this on while I hold your gown."

Triona did as she was
bade
,
letting the cloak drop to the floor as she settled the delicate camise over her
head. Next came the silk gown, Caitlin uttering so many compliments that Triona
grew embarrassed and asked her to stop as she drew on some soft leather
slippers.

"Why should I stop?" Caitlin objected,
showing a hint of the spirit that Triona had always suspected she possessed. "You
should know how pretty you look, Triona. The O’Byrne might not mind you wearing
trousers, but you’ll surely turn his head tonight. Now if you had some
ornaments. . ."

"I’ve these." Triona carefully lifted a small
silk-wrapped bundle from the chest. As she drew forth the jeweled arm-ring and
the lustrous strand of pink pearls Taig O’Nolan had brought her from Carlow,
Caitlin gasped.

"Oh, they’re beautiful. Put them on! Put them on!"

Caitlin’s excitement matched Triona’s, wearing such
baubles truly a new thing to her. And she found she liked the effect very much,
though she hoped Ronan wouldn’t mind that she’d donned gifts given to her by
another man, albeit a friend.

"Now let me brush out your hair for you, Triona,
and you’ll be ready," said Caitlin, but Triona firmly shook her head.

"You’re not here to wait upon me." She went
herself to the low table by the bed and got her brush.

"I don’t see it as that at all," Caitlin
countered, looking hurt. "You’ve done so much for me, Triona. If there’s
at least some small way I can repay you. . ."

Triona relented at once, anything to bring the light
back to Caitlin’s eyes. "Very well, but my hair’s a fine mess. Always has
been."

"I think it’s lovely," Caitlin said as Triona
handed her the brush and then sank onto the edge of the bed, preparing herself
for the sharp tugging that would be involved. But to her relief, Caitlin’s
touch was deft and gentle.

"I used to brush my grandmother’s hair before she
died. It was wild with curls just like yours, though it had long since gone
gray. But my father told me her hair had once been as fiery red as can be."

"Is his hair red, too?" Triona asked
absently, the soft swish of the brush lulling her.

"Aye, but with lots of gold in it, like yours.
Funny, isn’t it?"

Triona nodded, realizing, too, that Ronan would be
wondering what was keeping her if she didn’t appear soon at the feasting-hall.
With a long contented sigh she rose, smiling at Caitlin.

"Any more of that and I’ll surely fall asleep."

"I was finished anyway. Do you have a mirror?"

Triona laughed. "I hardly need to look at myself
after all the fine compliments you’ve given me, Caitlin MacMurrough!" She
hurried to the clothes chest and swept up her cloak, looking down when a dull
thud sounded near her foot.

"You dropped something, Triona. Here, I’ll get it."

Caitlin had retrieved her dagger before Triona could
bend down herself, but the young woman didn’t readily hand it to her. Instead
Caitlin stared at the weapon as if stunned, her face gone strangely pale.

"Where . . . where did you get this?"

"It was my father’s," Triona murmured,
surprised as well by Caitlin’s odd behavior. Especially when the young woman
glanced up at her, staring at Triona, at her face, at her hair as if she couldn’t
believe her eyes.

"Caitlin . . ."

"I thought I saw a resemblance from the very
first," said the young woman almost to herself, her expression
incredulous. "But it never occurred to me—I never thought. . ."

"Thought what?" Triona demanded, a strange
chill coursing through her. But Caitlin was gazing down again at the dagger,
turning it over and over in her palm.

"My father has one exactly like this—he always
wears it in his belt. Only it’s much bigger to fit his hand but he told me that
a matching one"—Caitlin held out the glittering weapon—"a smaller
one, was fashioned especially for his younger sister, Eva, when she so admired
his."

"Eva?" Triona asked, feeling the blood creep
from her face.

"Aye, he presented it to her on the eve of her
wedding to Richard de Roche of Naas."

A wedding between
Irish and Norman
, Triona found herself thinking, Caitlin’s words suddenly
bringing to mind the story Ronan had told her on her first night at Glenmalure
about his cook Seamus toiling at such an occasion. And Seamus had called her
Lady Eva just before he died, gaping at her in terror as if she were a ghostly
phantom come back to haunt the living. . ..

"This has nothing to do with me!" she lashed
out, willing away her heart-stopping niggling of intuition. "The dagger
belonged to my
father,
it’s as simple as that."
She snatched the weapon from Caitlin and stuffed it back inside her cloak. "There
could have been more than two that looked like this—"

"Did your father give it to you?"

"No, I found it hidden—" Triona didn’t say
anything more, clamping her mouth shut as she fled across the room. But Caitlin
flew after her, catching her by the arm to stop her.

"You said you never knew your true mother, Triona.
You said that she must have had lots of copper hair. But what if I told you
that your mother looked much like me—or so I’ve been told. I never knew my
father’s sister because she was killed by a wild boar four years before I was
born. But she was blond—"

"I told you this has nothing to do with me!"
Triona cut in, desperation seizing her as she yanked her arm free and bolted
for the door.

"This has everything to do with you, Triona, don’t
you see?" Caitlin cried, running after her. "Eva had an infant
daughter who was thought to have died in the forest as well—carried off by
wolves. At least that’s what Maurice de Roche later told my father. He was the
one who found my aunt’s body and brought her back to Kildare."

Triona had halted her flight and spun, her eyes riveted
to Caitlin’s. "Maurice de Roche?"

"Aye. Richard’s younger brother. A foul evil man,
too. My father never found proof, but he’s always suspected that Maurice
murdered Richard for his rich barony,
then
sought to
make Eva his wife. But she ran away with her daughter, Juliana—my father is certain
that she feared for her young babe. Maurice de Roche could never have made the
barony his own with an heiress in the way."

"No more," Triona said almost in a whisper,
sickened. But Caitlin pressed her all the same.

"How did your father say he found you?"

"In the forest," Triona murmured numbly. "He
was hunting and found me crying, my parents dead beside me. Killed by wolves.
He brought me home to Imaal and adopted me into the clan as his daughter."

"It was Eva he found dead beside you, Triona. He
must have found the dagger, too,
then
hid it just as
you said."

"Aye, in that small coffer," she admitted
without thinking, tears blurring her eyes as she glanced beyond Caitlin to the
furnishings still stacked against the wall. "Behind a false bottom."