Wild Roses (14 page)

Maire's gaze flew to the door closed so firmly against
her, a sudden thought plaguing her mind.

If she wanted him to think her appreciative of his
gracious treatment, she should surely have thanked him by now. So the daughter
of a chieftain who'd bowed to Norman rule would do. But she hadn't said a word,
mayhap only once come close yesterday just before he'd taken her to see
Clement. Her decision to remedy matters made, she tried to quell her sudden
nervousness as she left the bed by telling herself that going to him tonight
was the wisest thing to do . . . yet he had also come very close to slamming
the door.

Not wishing to fathom what might have made Duncan angry
again, Maire went to the massive chest at the foot of the bed where her blue
cloak had been neatly folded, and swept it around her shoulders. Her flimsy
camise was hardly enough garb in which to appear before the man, offering no
more covering than that sodden towel—

"Begorra, Maire O'Byrne, have you gone mad
altogether?" she whispered to herself as she walked to the door, suddenly
not so sure that she should disturb him.

It didn't help that everything Adele had said to her
about Duncan having no vent for his lust now that Flanna had been sent away
came rushing back to her, and Maire almost changed her mind. And Duncan had
kissed her, too, while she slept. She told herself as her hand moved shakily to
the latch that it must surely have been pity, but after what she had seen
tonight in his eyes—

Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, what did any of that matter?
Doing her best to gather her own courage, Maire had only to think of how Duncan
would look at her if he knew her to be the sister of Black O'Byrne, and she was
able to thrust all such concerns from her mind, though her nervousness remained.

It grew, too, as she made her way down the short
passageway and past the latrine to the adjoining room where light shone from
beneath the closed door. She could hear the creaking of a chair, her hand
rising to knock at the same moment heavy footsteps came toward
her
and the door was flung wide. She gasped at the flood of
light, backing up as Duncan almost ran into her.

"God's teeth, woman!"

Duncan had to brace his hands against the wall to catch
his balance, as startled to find Rose in the passageway as she appeared to be
that he had come so suddenly upon her. Her eyes wide and round, she said
nothing, only staring at him, while he swept his gaze over her blue cloak, his
gut clenching.

By the blood of God, was she dressed to try and flee
again? Yet why, then, had she come . . . ?

"I'm sorry . . . I thought to speak to you,"
came her voice in almost a whisper.

Duncan was struck more than he wanted to be by its
sweet timbre. He was struck, too, by her words, and found himself staring back
at her almost densely. She'd made little effort to speak to him of her own will
before, their exchanges provoked more by his none too gentle demands for a
response, much as what had happened earlier. Yet she didn't appear upset or
pressed. Was it possible she might have remembered something of her clan?

Duncan glanced past her to the bedchamber, then thought
better of it and took her arm. She blinked at his touch but did not hesitate
when he drew her with him.

"Come, we'll talk in here." He guided her
into the refuge he seldom allowed anyone to enter and around the oak table
which took up much of the space. Duncan gestured for her to take the
high-backed chair he'd abandoned moments before while he sat down opposite her
on the cot.

At once her face reddened, and he followed her eyes to
the single woolen blanket folded at one end of a mattress that was more a
pallet atop the narrow wooden frame. Then she glanced back at him, at his
shoulders, at his chest, as if gauging that the cot was not nearly large enough
for him, which made him guess easily her thoughts.

"It's not as bad as it looks—much better than the
cold ground. That's all I knew for years . . . a soldier's lot."

He had shrugged while she only blushed further, which
made Duncan wonder again how much contact she had had with men. Not much,
surely, as he saw her swallow nervously, her beautiful gray eyes so luminous in
the lamplight and yet anxious, too.

Had no man ever come near to court her? Had none dared
to see past the unfortunate infirmity she bore with such grace that Clement had
been moved to tears in telling him how Rose had walked with the composure of a
queen while the great hall rocked with laughter around her?

Fresh fury surged inside Duncan that the woman he'd made
clear to everyone was a guest in his home had been so sorely mistreated, and he
thought again of the harsh words he intended for Adele and Rufus the Fool.

"M-mayhap, Lord FitzWilliam, we should speak at
another time . . ."

Duncan realized he must be scowling. Rose suddenly
appeared uncomfortable, perched like a bird at the edge of her chair as if
ready to fly, her voice grown uncertain. He saw then a measure of cream linen
peeking beneath her cloak and realized, too, that she must have made herself ready
for bed only to decide she wanted to talk to him. In truth, he had been on his
way to talk further to her, much weighing heavily on his mind. Leaning forward,
he hoped his low voice would calm her.

"My anger isn't for you, Rose. I was thinking of
Adele and her blasted fool, and how I failed that you be well treated under my
roof—"

"No, no, you've been very gracious to me and
I—
well, I wanted to thank you, truly."

She'd spoken in such a rush that she seemed almost
surprised at herself. Duncan's frustration that she'd not come to speak of her
clan was somewhat soothed by her words. It had undeniably cut him that she
might consider him of the same brutal ilk as Adele and her knights, but how
could he blame her for that either? He and Adele were blood kin, much as he
might wish otherwise.

"I'm not an ogre, Rose," he said earnestly,
leaning closer. "I told you from the first I would not hurt you. And if I
could alter what happened to your clansmen, I would, I vow it! But nothing can
be done save that you're returned safely home, and soon. Do you remember
anything more at all . . . ?"

She had begun to shake her head before he finished,
which made Duncan's frustration again grow sharp.

"So we've still only your name . . . while I
learned little from that accursed meadow," he said more to himself,
imagining again the slaughter she must have witnessed at the amount of dried
blood staining the grass. "Your clansmen's bodies were gone—Adele had told
me that was likely, but I wanted to see for myself, no matter she said a rider
had disappeared into the trees only moments before the first arrows—"

Duncan fell silent at Rose's sudden ashen pallor, which
reminded him all the more that Clement had pointedly advised again she be
treated with gentleness. The friar hadn't been pleased to see him come storming
down the stairs—God's teeth! He didn't need Clement's censure to know it hadn't
helped matters for him to become angry that Rose had wanted to flee, yet it
seemed he had been nothing but vexed since yesterday.

Damn him for a fool, he should never have kissed her!
That had started the trouble. No woman since Gisele had occupied his thoughts
as this one. He had told himself a hundred times that only her wretched plight
had captured his mind, yet it hadn't been thoughts of her slain clansmen that
had sent him for the sanctum of this room. Even now, looking at Rose's midnight
hair drying in soft tendrils around her face and throat made his loins tighten.

He'd been an utter fool, too, to disrupt her bath! Had
he truly thought he'd be immune to her nakedness simply because he hoped soon
to be rid of her? Immune to the taut, rounded beauty of breasts he'd already
touched, to dark woman's hair like a tempting shadow beneath that wet towel
where his fingers had already

"Enough, man, enough," Duncan said so gruffly
to himself that once more Rose appeared uncertain as to whether she should stay
or go.

She even started to rise, a pale flash of thigh making
him clench his teeth, but he stood first, which at once made her sink back into
the chair, her lovely eyes grown wide. Pained that she still seemed so uneasy
around him no matter all he'd said to reassure her, he decided in the next
instant that perhaps it was a very good thing, given the days ahead. God grant
him strength if she ever looked at him other than as a nervous virgin . . .

"Ease yourself, Rose, it wasn't my intent to
distress you," he said to soothe her, keeping his voice low. "We'll
speak no more of your clansmen unless you wish it. And I'll not have you suffer
again as you did tonight. Until I've found your family, you'll be safer at my
side. I leave tomorrow morning for Dublin, and you will accompany me.

Chapter 13

Dublin? Maire was so stunned that she stared dumbly as
Duncan held out his hand to her, her mind running away with itself.

Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, she must accompany him to
Dublin? And for how long? Ronan would never find her there, and even if he did,
that walled city was dangerously filled with Normans—

"There's a chance your clan has already sent word
of its loss to the Justiciar John de Gray. If so, I could see you home all the
sooner,"
came
Duncan's voice to pierce her
stricken thoughts. "If not, perhaps a courtier at Dublin Castle might
recognize you, someone known to your father's clan. I decided it worth the
journey, though I can spare only three days—"

"Three days?" Relief overwhelming her that it
would be no longer, Maire accepted Duncan's assistance and rose to her feet as
he nodded, his expression become ominously grim.

"I've prisoners, Irish rebels. You saw them?"
Her knees gone weak as she murmured a soft "aye," Maire had a
terrible sense she knew what
he would say when his fingers
tightened around hers.

"The bastards will hang if I've heard nothing from
their chieftain by then. Gerard captured two of the O'Melaghlin's grandsons and
his own harper—and if it's true these rebel chieftains love their musicians as
well if not more than their blood family, the O'Melaghlin will come to
Meath."

As Duncan once more guided her around the rough-hewn
table spread with leather-bound books and parchment maps and then out into the
passageway, Maire felt the blood pounding in her ears at his harsh words. Would
the O'Melaghlin heed Duncan's threat? Yet what then . . . ? Somehow she made
herself speak, grateful for the shadows which hid her burning face.

"You . . . you would release the prisoners if the
chieftain—the O'Melaghlin came to Longford Castle?"

"No, they'd remain my hostages—and that, only if
he swore to peace. If the O'Melaghlin refuses, the prisoners will die."

Duncan's pronouncement lay like an icy hand gripping
her heart. Maire hoped she didn't appear too shaken as he drew her into the
bedchamber and turned to face her, searching her eyes.

"Enough talk of rebels, Rose. It's no matter to
you."

"I-I only asked as I've already caused you so much
trouble," Maire blurted out, growing anxious that she might have seemed
too interested in the prisoners' plight. "You've concerns enough here
without having to journey to Dublin. Messengers sent across the land on my
behalf, strife between you and your sister—"

"That strife existed long before Adele came upon
you and your clansmen." His tone grown bitter, Duncan's gaze went to the
embroidered screen arranged around the tub, his expression as hard as stone.
"Long before I was born, and my mother was made to bear it. But she had my
father then, to protect her . . ."

Duncan fell silent, a faraway look in his eyes that
touched Maire for the somber regret it held, too. It struck her suddenly that
the screen had been brought from a room as intensely masculine as the man, with
its spartan furnishings and unadorned walls, a room she had sensed at once was
a private refuge. For such a lovely thing to be kept there, it must surely hold
some special meaning.

"It's very beautiful, the screen," she
murmured, her breath catching as Duncan's grim gaze met hers. "The
embroidery—"

"My mother's. The work of a madwoman, or so my
three half brothers claimed. They had her locked away when my father died, and
I never saw her again. And I was too young—
Enough
!"

He'd spoken so vehemently that Maire started, Duncan's
face grown almost tortured as he threw a glance at the bed.

"You'd do well to get some rest. We'll be leaving
not long after dawn."

Maire nodded, Duncan appearing so weary at that moment,
too, that she couldn't help saying as he turned to go, "What of you, Lord
FitzWilliam? You can't have slept much at all . . ."

He'd stopped to look at her so strangely that Maire
felt a blush burn her skin.

"I—I meant that mayhap you might want the bed. I
could take the cot—"

"My bed is yours, woman, for the duration of your
stay,"
came
his voice in so husky a timbre that
Maire shivered as if he'd touched her. "But I'm grateful for your kind
concern . . . and that you came to thank me. Sleep well."

Maire could but stare as he left the room,
a strange
warmth engulfing her from head to foot. The
unsettling effect of his voice combined with the odd intensity in his eyes
lingered even after she had doused the few oil lamps, climbed into bed, and drawn
the covers to her chin.

She had only been behaving as she must! Maire told
herself over and over, wishing the disconcerting feeling would go away. As a
chieftain's daughter accustomed to Norman rule. She hadn't truly been concerned
for Duncan—her enemy, one of the conquering horde who'd done so much to destroy
what the O'Byrnes held dear.