Wild Roses (15 page)

Her thoughts repeating
themselves
like a litany, Maire closed her eyes, but she knew sleep would be long in
coming for the truth plaguing at her heart. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, she was not
only lying to others but lying to herself now, too!

She had been concerned.

For a Norman.

A Norman who with each passing moment was becoming less
a foe to her than a man . . . saints
help
her!

***

"Is the woman well?"

Duncan nodded as Gerard heavily took the chair opposite
him, though he didn't look away from the fire. The great hall filled with
shadows and silent but for the crackling logs, they sat for a moment until
Gerard shifted restlessly.

"You may not wish to speak of this now, Duncan,
but I say three days is too long! We should hang those bastards from the
battlements tomorrow and to hell with the O'Melaghlin—"

"And risk further strife when we've a chance for
peace? Dammit, man, hanging every rebel in Meath or all of Ireland for that
matter won't bring back your brother!"

Duncan had
shouted,
all
thoughts of Rose thrust from his mind as Gerard's face tightened angrily
against him. But he would hear no more of an argument that had raged back and
forth since he'd met up with his men in West Meath and learned of the capture.
Lowering his voice, he sat forward in his chair.

"If the O'Melaghlins had slain Robert, I might
give you a free hand, but they're not the ones to blame. Save your wrath for
the O'Byrnes if they ever stray this far north again, and I'll help you myself
tie the rope around Black O'Byrne's neck. But there will be no hangings
tomorrow. Do you hear me, Gerard?"

His knight not answering but turning to glare into the
fire, Duncan sighed heavily. He debated for a brief moment leaving Reginald
Montfort in charge of the castle while he was away in Dublin, yet he knew
Gerard would not cross him. Over the years they had saved each other's lives in
battle countless times, and he trusted no other man as well.

He had known Robert and Gerard de Barry since he had
left Northumberland as a youth to serve in King John's army. Younger sons like
them with no inheritance of which to speak, there had been little other choice
for them than such an occupation. In Duncan's case, his three half brothers had
kindly seen to that. Bitterness welling inside him, he shoved thoughts of the
men he considered no better than thieves and murderers from his mind and
focused once more upon Gerard.

"Did the prisoners finally speak?"

"The younger two,"
came
the gruff response, though at least Gerard had turned from the fire to look at
him. "The harper was better able to resist the whip—stubborn old goat, but
I don't believe any of what was said. The O'Melaghlins slaughtered those cattle
just as surely as they've been stealing them since we came to Meath—"

"And I'll suffer no more of it, damn them."
His voice as grim as Gerard's face, Duncan clenched his fists against the
chair. "No more raiding cattle, no more torched fields. If the O'Melaghlin
doesn't swear to peace, my hand will be forced. There will be no more
prisoners, only corpses . . ."

Just as his hand had been forced two days ago with his
own kind, Duncan thought darkly, imagining the Justiciar might have heard
already, too, of his swift execution of justice. But he doubted a dissenting
word would be spoken, any man still loyal to the traitors Walter and Hugh de
Lacy, former earls of Meath and Ulster, no better than dead.

By the blood of God, he would allow no rogue Normans or
rebel Irish to harry him from his land! He'd never known a home before Ireland
and he would fight as he had done for everything he'd gained in his life to
establish some measure of peace over the barony King John had granted him. And
he would have peace, even if it must be held by the sword.

"Do I have your word, then, that we'll wait no
more than three days?"

Torn from his thoughts, Duncan met Gerard's burning
eyes as his knight rushed on.

"If the O'Melaghlin refuses to come to Meath, a
lesson must be taught—and at least I'll have won some vengeance whether it's
the O'Byrnes who murdered my brother or not that hang from the tower. God's
breath, someone must pay! You must grant me that much!"

Gerard's vehement plea ringing from the rafters, Duncan
made to speak, but a flurry of amber silk caught his eye. His gut clenched as
Adele came toward them, a stricken look on her face.

"Dear God, how terrible! I couldn't help but
overhear . . . your brother, Gerard? I'm so sorry."

Overhear? Imagining that Adele might very well have
been listening to their conversation before she'd decided to make her presence
known, Duncan was not pleased to see her lay her hand with sympathy on his
knight's arm as Gerard rose from his chair.

"How long ago was this tragedy?" Adele shot a
look of reproach at Duncan and then glanced back at Gerard. "My dear
brother failed to mention a word of your loss to me—oh, please, you mustn't
stand on my account, I know how tired you must be. Let's sit and you must tell
me everything. How dreadful for you, Gerard! Did you say Robert was
murdered?"

That she knew Gerard's brother's name confirming she
had indulged herself in their entire conversation, Duncan almost cursed aloud
when Gerard retook his chair while Adele sank to her knees and settled herself
in front of him, her eyes focused compassionately on his face. Disgusted,
Duncan rose to leave but Gerard's still-ravaged voice stopped him.

"Three days, Duncan? Do I have your word?"

The loss of Robert de Gray, both friend and loyal
comrade in arms, having cut him almost as deeply as it had Gerard, Duncan
nodded. "You have it."

He said no more, angered to see that Adele's hand had
crept to Gerard's thigh, her beautiful face illuminated to perfection by the
firelight. She didn't spare him a glance, her eyes only for Gerard, as Duncan
turned and strode from the great hall, his half sister's concentrated attention
reminding him of a hawk bearing close for a kill.

Damn the woman! He had warned Gerard of her more than
once, but he wasn't the man's keeper. Adele had marked his knight as fair
quarry from the first she'd seen him, no doubt waiting for the right moment to
pounce only to have finally found it.

A seductive listening ear, a touch, sweet soothing
words—God's teeth, it was nothing more than sport to her! Hopefully Gerard
would realize as much, as well as consider his bride-to-be awaiting their
marriage in Sussex before doing anything rash. Callous, coldhearted sport, just
as the senseless slaughter at that meadow . . .

His grim thoughts turning once more to Rose, Duncan
climbed the last steps to his rooms, wondering if she slept. He had left her
some time ago, thinking to meet Gerard in the dungeon, but had gotten no
farther than the great hall, where he'd slumped wearily into a chair before the
massive stone hearth and remained there while the castle grew quiet around him.

No one had strayed near, as if sensing he wished to be
left alone—none of his knights, no servants as they cleared away the remains of
the meal, not his six hunting dogs, who had done no more than nuzzle his hand
before trotting off to sleep elsewhere, not even Faustis, who'd come close at
one point only to change his mind and retreat at Duncan's dark glance. And
Adele and her retainers must have retired to their quarters to escape whatever
wrath they thought coming at their first chance.

Yet she had obviously decided to venture forth—to find
him and attempt to make more excuses for herself and FitzHugh? If so, she'd
been swayed easily enough from her purpose upon seeing Gerard. Or perhaps she
thought her actions concerning Rose were of so little consequence to not merit
further discussion . . . ?

Duncan swore under his breath as he entered the dimly
lit anteroom, determined that she would hear from him before he left for
Dublin. But all he wanted right now was rest. He saw the glint of armor atop
the bench that he'd stripped out of so quietly as to not disturb Rose at her
bath, almost deciding then to wait to speak to her when she was done. Yet when
he had seen the soap skidding across the floor . . .

"Blasted fool." His words were no more than a
harsh whisper as he went into the next room, but Duncan nonetheless glanced at
the bed. He saw no movement; upon drawing closer, the sound of gentle breathing
assured him Rose was fast asleep. He did not linger, wouldn't allow himself to
after he'd been so reckless yesterday as to kiss her, but passing by the
screened tub made him stop.

He was tired to the bone, but he stank, too. As ripely
as any man who'd ridden south into Wicklow and then all the way to West Meath
and back in less than two days. Yet the screen would have to go. His gut
twisting, he couldn't bear to look further at the embroidered scenes of his
mother's life, the screen usually kept folded and shrouded in the other room.

Quickly and silently he did so, and when he returned he
glanced once more at the bed to ensure Rose still lay deeply sleeping. Her
lithe form took so little room on the huge mattress; he found himself
remembering all too well the brief yet stirring sensation of her naked body in
his arms, and he turned away, scowling.

Try as he might, his thoughts would not be rid of her,
especially the look of concern in her eyes when she'd asked if he might wish to
use the bed. And she'd spoken so gently, reminding him of another whose voice
had been as sweet . . .

Struck anew that he would compare any woman so
favorably to Gisele, Duncan felt the same desolate feelings that always gripped
him, yet strangely, they didn't seem as sharp. Sharper was the sudden thought
that tomorrow might be the last time he saw Rose if some in her clan had gone
to Dublin, which made him scowl all the deeper as he hastily stripped out of
his clothes.

God's teeth, he would be well rid of Pier! It was
true,
she'd brought nothing but trouble to his house—though
not on her own account. He could imagine how much she wished to be home, even
if she couldn't yet remember more than her Christian name. Yet she had finally
seemed more at ease around him tonight, just before he'd left her, her soft
words making him speak of things long kept to
himself
.

His jaw growing tight, Duncan was glad that he'd put
away the screen as he stepped into the tub and sank into water that had long
lost its warmth. Only then did he realize he had no plain soap, only the fragrant
wedge that lay at the bottom of the tub. By the devil, he would smell like
lilacs. But better that than to use none at all.

He began to scrub his chest and under his arms, the
scent wafting around him . . . making him think all too blatantly again of
Rose.

Of how her nipples had prodded so seductively against
the sodden towel, her legs long and pale and lovely, showing no hint of any
infirmity. Of how her tangled hair had shown black as midnight against milk
white skin he already knew to be soft and smooth as the finest silk. That she
had sat in this same tub, the same water that he used now to rinse his body
having streamed over hers, seemed suddenly so intimate a thing that he felt his
loins grow painfully heavy and hard.

Gritting his teeth, he bathed quickly, amazed that in
water so cold— By the blood of God, what was this woman doing to him?

He couldn't climb from the tub fast enough, grabbing a
towel from the table and taking only a moment to dry himself in front of the
fire. And still his enormous erection persisted, which made him stride naked
for the adjoining room lest Rose did awake and spy a sight no virgin need face
until her wedding night.

Chapter 14

"A good journey, Rose. And may you find your
clansmen in Dublin! It would be a pity for you to have to come all the way back
to Meath."

Adele's parting words still rang in Maire's mind as if
they'd just been uttered rather than hours ago. She winced, too, as she
remembered the daunting look Adele had given her as she had ridden from Longford
Castle beside Duncan.

The woman hoped never to see her again; that had been
more than plain. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, what would Adele do when Maire did
return? She alone knew there was no family awaiting her in Dublin, no outraged
clan gone to protest to the Justiciar of a loyal chieftain and his men
ruthlessly slaughtered. Her only hope lay in that Ronan might have learned her
whereabouts, and even now was dogging their progress to Dublin, waiting for the
right moment to attack . . .

That thought chilling her, Maire's gaze flew to Duncan
astride his spirited bay stallion only two lengths ahead of her, at the lead of
a phalanx of fourteen mailed knights and as many men-at-arms that bristled with
weaponry. She could sense his tension. The heavily wooded valley they had
ridden into moments ago was not a route he would have normally
taken,
she'd heard him say to Reginald Montfort. But it was
shorter, and he had said, too, given that they only had three days before they
must return to Meath, that the sooner they reached Dublin, the better.

Three days. Maire shivered beneath her cloak, and it
wasn't because the day was cool; she hoped for the prisoners' sake that the
O'Melaghlin would agree to peace. Yet even so, his grandsons and the old harper
would remain Duncan's hostages. To live out their lives as slaves at Longford
Castle? Maybe even in the dungeon?

Such a possibility was too bleak to contemplate.
Maire's hands tightened nervously on the reins, and she scanned the thick
trees, wondering again if Ronan and his men might be lying in wait to rescue
her. Yet she felt as much dread, not wanting any to lose their lives on her
account. Not any O'Byrnes or any of Duncan's knights or—