Wild Roses (9 page)

"Watch her, Gerard; don't forget—you've already
been warned. Adele devours men as ravenously as a glutton his meat. Your fair
bride-to-be would not be well pleased."

"God's breath, man, you know I'd do nothing to
grieve her. My heart is Melicent's—and all else of me. It's only Irish rebels I
live to hunt down, damn their kind to hell."

The two men had been conversing so easily that Maire
could sense they'd long known each other, yet she was struck by how harsh
Gerard's voice had suddenly grown. She heard Duncan sigh heavily.

"I'll join you when I can." Duncan met her
eyes but Maire looked away, realizing with a start that her hand was splayed
upon his chest. Her face flaring hot, she balled her fingers against her waist
as he added, "Just remember, Gerard, hang no one without me."

The knight's only answer a darkening expression as
Duncan carried her past the man, Maire felt suddenly ill and more grateful than
before that she had been wise enough to keep her true identity to herself.

Eternally grateful, too, that Flanna was coming to help
her tonight. Maire's only thought was to protect Ronan from Duncan. He didn't
stop until he had reached another spiral staircase leading up a second tower,
but instead of ascending he went to a nearby door, rapping only once before
stepping inside.

"Clement!"

Chapter 8

Maire had to blink. The large room she and Duncan
entered was dark and dusty, the overpowering yet pleasant smell of fresh and
drying herbs serving somewhat to settle her stomach. Basil, camomile, sweet
fennel, mint, and so many others hung from the rafters, while she could see in
the flickering light of a single oil lamp that crocks and colorful glass
vessels of every shape and size filled trestle tables shoved against the walls.

"Clement, are you here?"

"I am, Baron, but a moment, please. Just one
moment . . ."

The calm voice had come from an adjoining room, but
Maire was distracted as Duncan set her down gently, his arm remaining firmly
around her waist as if he thought she might fall.

In truth she was no stranger to being carried; before
she'd regained the use of her legs either one of her brothers or a clansman had
taken her wherever she needed to go about the stronghold, or helped her to
stand or sit. Yet that had been so commonplace, while with Duncan . . . Warmed
in spite of
herself
by his protectiveness, she decided
that was all the more reason to step slightly away.

"Truly, Lord FitzWilliam, I can stand well
enough—oh!"

A cat's pained yowl filled the room, Maire almost
toppling backward as the startled feline jumped onto a table. Suddenly Maire
found herself once more enveloped in Duncan's strong arms, and oddly enough he
was chuckling, which caught her as much by surprise as the cat, whose switching
tail she had just stepped upon. Duncan had been so grim only moments ago, and
now to hear him laughing, a low, rich sound that seemed to rumble from his
chest and even more strangely, make her want to smile, too . . .

"I thought that might happen. Clement loves cats
as much as mixing his potions. He has eleven of them, usually underfoot. Look
over there."

As Duncan eased his hold so she could turn around
although he kept his hands at her waist, Maire saw that indeed, a sleek pair of
half-grown kittens swatted at a frayed twist of rope beneath one table while
more cats were dozing throughout the room, some curled on the floor, others
atop casks and barrels. Even the snow-white beauty that she'd unknowingly
affronted had settled into a fluffy ball of fur behind a huge mortar and
pestle. Maire thought how much the feline reminded her of Triona's beloved
Maeve, named after the legendary warrior-queen of Eire.

"Do you like cats?"

She started, meeting Duncan's eyes yet unable to fathom
his expression, the lighting was so dim. It seemed so curious for such a
formidable-looking man to be asking her such an ordinary thing, but she
supposed his mind wasn't always filled with fighting and rebel clans and all
the responsibilities his rank must entail. Yet she didn't have a chance to
answer as a stout fellow with a shaven crown, wearing a somber gray monk's
robe, hustled into the room, his voice humbly apologetic as he lit a second
lamp.

"Forgive me, Baron, but the Greek text I was
reading begged for me to finish the page—ah, now!" Clement twisted around
his girth to study Maire. "Is this the young woman who last night so
worried our Faustis?"

"Her name is Rose. I know little else about
her." Duncan's voice had grown as grim as before as the friar drew closer
to Maire. "She remembers little else, in fact. The injury to her
head—"

"Oh, yes, those can be very bad. Very bad,"
Clement seemed to say more to himself, his broad, kindly face full of concern
as he gently shooed a yellow cat from a stool and gestured for Maire to come
and sit.

She did, very conscious of Duncan dropping his hands
from around her waist, her skin still feeling warm where he'd held her. Yet she
made herself focus upon the friar; he seemed to note well her awkward gait as
she moved to oblige him, but she felt only compassion emanating from the man.
Nonetheless it did little to soothe her sudden nervousness.

Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, would he guess her ruse? Her
face grew flushed as she sat, and Clement's hand went at once gingerly to
examine the bump on the left side of her head. Maire didn't have to feign her
grimace or her sharp intake of breath.

"Ah, forgive me; of course it is still tender,
terribly so." Patting her cheek as a father would do a
child,
Clement gave a sigh and then stepped back, still studying her thoughtfully
while Maire's disquiet only grew.

"So what is your judgment?" Duncan said
finally to break the stillness, his voice low and impatient. "Have you
some potion that might help her?"

"Time will heal her best, Baron, but yes, I
believe I've something to ease the soreness . . ."

As Clement turned to a nearby table and began searching
rather noisily among vessels and bowls, Maire's gaze went to Duncan. She wasn't
surprised he studied her, too. He did not appear angry at the friar's
conclusion, but the hard set of his jaw told her that he wasn't altogether
pleased.

"How much time, Clement? A few days? A week or
more? By the blood of God, if her clan doesn't know soon that she is
safe—"

"Such an injury has no rhyme or reason, Baron; I
cannot say how long it may be. The shock of the attack upon her clansmen too,
may be more at the heart of her malady. She must be treated most gently while
she is among us—ah, here it is."

Maire's eyes widened as Clement drew a plum-colored
vial from the clutter on the table, the friar clucking his tongue with
satisfaction.

"I've some wine to mix with this powder if you'll
both give me a moment—"

"I'll get it."

Duncan was gone before Maire could blink, several cats
meowing loudly and skittering out of the way of his boots as he disappeared
into the other room with a vehement curse. Clement sighed again, looking at
Maire with some resignation.

"He is a hard man, Rose, bred from a hard life.
But you've no reason to fear that you won't be treated well here. I've known no
others as honorable as Lord FitzWilliam, nor a man who longs more to tame this
unruly land and live in peace. That Lady Adele's knights struck down your
clansmen has sorely troubled him—he's never slain anyone for less than just
cause. Only yesterday he hanged three of his own kind for defiling an Irish
girl. Poor child. She died in her mother's arms—"

"The wine, Clement. Mix your potion and let's be
done. I've a long ride ahead of me."

Maire shifted nervously upon the stool, unsettled as
much that her heart had begun to pound when Duncan strode back into the room as
by what the friar had revealed to her. A Norman hanging his own kind . . . for
an Irish girl? She had never heard of such a thing, would scarcely have
believed it if anyone else than a friar had told her.

"So you will be journeying far, Baron?"
Clement's voice broke into her thoughts, Maire watching with some apprehension
as he poured a good dose of stark, white powder into a goblet and then a slow
stream of red wine, swirling the two together. "Out of Meath?"

"South of Dublin to the place where the attack
occurred—if I must, I'll drag some of Adele's worthless band out of bed to lead
the way. I want to see if the slain are still there" —Duncan glanced with
somber apology at Maire— "or if anyone might have come to look for them. I
hope not wolves . . ."

He didn't say more but Maire's heart was thundering so
fiercely, her mind racing, that she doubted she would have heard him. Even
knowing now that Longford Castle lay in Meath and not farther north, as she had
feared, did little to ease her.

Duncan planned to visit the meadow? What if Ronan and
his men were there? Niall? Aye, there would be a terrible battle, surely. And
if her brothers weren't at that wretched place, and the bodies of her clansmen
were gone, would Duncan find tracks that might point him deep into the Wicklow
Mountains? Saints help
her,
he would know then that
her clan was no more loyal to King John than Adele had thought her a fit bride—

"Here, child. Drink it down, now, all of it."

Maire's hand was shaking as she accepted the goblet and
did as she was bidden, paying as little heed to the strangely sweet taste as
that Clement was watching her with silent approval. He didn't speak until she
had drained the goblet and he took it from her quickly, as if seeing that she
trembled.

"You've nothing to fear, Rose. When you wake, your
head will plague you less, I vow it."

"Wake?" Realization as to what she'd just
done hitting her like a
blow,
she glanced
incredulously at Duncan and then back to the friar. "You . . . you gave me
a sleeping draught?"

"Rest is the second-best cure, and after
everything you've suffered, I can think of no better. Here." Clement
scooped up a kitten winding itself around his sandaled feet and laid the
purring creature in Maire's lap. "Ease yourself, child. All will be
well." Then to Duncan he added while Maire watched numbly, a peculiar
sensation of drowsiness overtaking her, "It won't be long, Baron. A moment
or two, no more."

A moment or two? Her eyelids growing heavy, Maire
unconsciously stroked the silky kitten with sluggish fingers, her chin
beginning to sink like a weight to her chest though her mind still raced in
desperation.

Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, what of Flanna? What of their
plans for her to leave Longford Castle that very night? What of Ronan and Niall
. . . and . . . ?

Maire would have burst into tears, but she had no
strength left to cry, no strength even to speak as her head slumped farther and
the kitten was taken from her lap. Then she felt herself being lifted, Duncan's
voice grown oddly distant as the room spun around her and began to grow black .
. .

"How long will she sleep?"

" 'Til
midday tomorrow at
least. It was as strong an opiate as a healing one, Baron. And you must treat
her very gently when she wakes, just as I said, to help ease the mists from her
mind. I fear it may still take some time but— ah, me, such a pity that one so
young and lovely should witness such senseless horror. May God grant her heart
peace.
"

Yes, it was a pity, Duncan thought
grimly,
Clement's remedy not being entirely what he had expected. Nor could he argue
its merits as the deed was done, the woman already appearing fast asleep, her
head lolling against his shoulder, her slender arms dangling limply.

Yet he had so much to do, messengers to be sent, the
castle and his men to be made ready for any potentiality—preparations he had
already been hard at since dawn—and then a journey that might keep him away
until tomorrow night, if not longer, as he planned, also, to meet Gerard in
West Meath, that perhaps it was best she slept away the hours. At least he
would know her to be safe in his chambers.

"I trust that you'll check on her often in my
absence," he said to Clement, who nodded solemnly. "I fear it was her
father among those killed yesterday. The remembering of the slaughter may be as
much of a shock—" Duncan didn't finish, his jaw grown so tight at the
thought of Adele's blood sport that he did not trust himself to speak further.
Holding his unconscious charge close to his chest, he went to the door,
Clement's sober voice following after him.

"May God's peace go with you as well, Baron. It is
a trying time and I will pray for us all. Irish rebels, Walter de Lacy's men
attacking your tenants, and now this poor innocent brought to your house . .
."

Duncan heard no more, the door swinging shut behind him.
He wasn't surprised to see that several knights stood waiting for him, no doubt
for orders, as well as Faustis, the squat steward wringing his plump hands and
looking as worried as usual. Yet Duncan ignored them all and kept walking, his
only thought to see the woman safely tucked in bed. There would be time enough
when that task was done for other matters—

"My lord, please, a moment!"

"Not now, Faustis." Scowling, Duncan heard
the steward scurrying after him, which only made him walk faster through the
still empty great hall. "We'll talk later."

"B-but Lady Adele has ordered me to have food
prepared, my lord, food enough for several days, as she plans to ride with her
knights after Sir Gerard in search of Irish rebels. Yet you told me I must do
nothing else until the storerooms are stocked to the rafters with provisions in
case of a siege—my lord? My lord, what am I to do?"

"Do as I ordered, man! I will tend to Lady
Adele," Duncan said without stopping, his tone so furious that a pair of
serving girls spun from sweeping the floors to stare at him wide-eyed. He
strode from the great hall and took the tower steps to his private chambers
three at a time, no matter his burden, thunderous thoughts roiling in his mind.