Wild Roses (18 page)

Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, at least it was that rather
than the suspicion she had glimpsed in his eyes at the bog, though she had done
her best to assure herself that asking to ride with him had convinced him
further that her hastily conceived story was true. She had truly never thought
she would need a story, nor considered that anything she said might ring false
given she'd shown such skill with horses. And she had never, ever imagined that
Duncan might dive into the treacherous muck when he saw her cloak. Saints help
her, what that might mean had kept her mind spinning and her heart often
racing—

"You look beautiful, Rose."

His voice was so husky that she shivered, her breath
falling still altogether as he came forward and took her arm. Maire had never
known any man to say such a thing to her. And he was looking at her so
strangely, differently than he ever had before. Duncan's handsome face grown
sober, he stared into her eyes for so long and heart-stopping a moment that the
servingwoman coughed lightly and excused herself, though she threw a knowing
smile at Maire just before she left the room.

That only made Maire's knees feel weaker as Duncan drew
her with him, and she knew as surely that something was happening to her,
something incredible and dangerous and impossible that she would be a fool not
to fight and shove forever from her mind. Yet it seemed her thoughts and
feelings had forged a will of their own, mayhap even from the first moment she
had seen Duncan FitzWilliam.

"Shall we walk or might I carry you?" came
his low query as they, too, left the bedchamber. "It would be less
taxing—"

"No, please . . . I'd like to walk." Her face
burning, she accepted his proffered arm. "Truly, Lord Fitz—Duncan, I'm not
a child that must be assisted here and there."

"I never imagined you a child. Come."

She'd seen no affront in his eyes, but Maire sensed a
slight stiffness in his shoulders that she immediately decided was best, no
matter her sudden regret that she'd been unkind. Mayhap now he would not ask
such a thing again, the intimacy of him carrying her too much to bear after
hours spent sharing the same saddle. She did not want to think of how much she
had liked the sensation of his arms around her, his hard thighs hugging her
hips . . .

"Have you always blushed so easily?"

She met his eyes with a start, as disconcerted by her
wild imaginings as that he would so unexpectedly ask her something of her past.
Warning herself that she must be all the more careful not to arouse further
suspicion, she answered as calmly as she could. "I . . . I don't know.
Mayhap if I could remember . . ."

His heavy sigh as she fell silent wasn't what she had
expected either, nor his frown as they left the guests' hall that formed only a
small part of Dublin Castle. Wondering what might have displeased him, she
tried to ignore the curious glances thrown their way by well-dressed courtiers
bound, too, she imagined, for the banquet hall.

"You'll see many staring tonight, but don't let it
trouble you,"
came
Duncan's voice as if reading
her mind. "Most all by now have heard of your plight—Lord de Grey chose to
make no secret of it. He hopes someone may recognize you, especially since no
word has yet come to Dublin from your clan."

"No word?" Maire prayed at this news that she
looked convincingly dismayed as Duncan shook his head. He said no more, and she
didn't either, only too grateful to focus instead on the growing crush of
courtiers.

It was true, people were openly staring, Maire
realized, as the din of the banquet hall grew louder. Not so much at her
awkward gait but at her face, while Duncan's frown only seemed to grow deeper.
Yet he drew her more closely against him, too, which confused her as much as
made her flush to her toes. His hold upon her seemed almost possessive, as if
he wanted everyone to see . . .

Begorra, would her imaginings not cease? Dismissing the
impossible thought, Maire blinked as they reached the soaring entrance to the
banquet hall, the massive room illuminated by scores of blazing torches. And it
was already teeming with humanity, the roar of conversation making her head
spin. Yet as she and Duncan moved into the throng, she heard a strange drop in
the clamor as heads turned and people stood back so they could pass.

"That must be her—God's blood, she's comely but
I've never seen the wench before," came an aside from a stout Norman near
to Maire's right. "Have you, FitzGilbert?"

She didn't hear the answer but didn't need to, knowing
none would recognize her. As Duncan led her toward the high table, where she
saw Lady Enid lean over to say something to her husband, Maire was suddenly
distracted by a trio of lovely young women who glided out of their path but
kept three pairs of eyes fixed enviously upon her.

"Can you believe Lord FitzWilliam has agreed to
wed that Irish chit?" hissed one.

"Only if he must, Clare, that's what I
heard."

"Of course that's the only reason!" whispered
the third. "Why else would he want to be burdened with a cripple?"

Maire stared after them in shock while Duncan continued
to draw her through the throng that had suddenly become no more than a dizzying
blur of voices and faces. She doubted he had heard those women, doubted she had
heard their words herself.
Duncan was
thinking to marry her?
It couldn't be true.

"Take care on the steps, Rose."

Dazedly she nodded, as grateful for Duncan's assistance
at that moment to climb to the dais as she was certain she would have stumbled without
it. Only Lady Enid's kind smile seemed strangely to steady her; the older
woman, resplendent in green brocade that heightened the rich auburn of her
hair, arose to offer the cushioned chair next to her own.

"Ah, child, how charming you look. Sit here by
me."

"She is lovely, FitzWilliam," seconded John
de Gray in his great booming voice as Maire sank into the chair. "A man
could do worse in a bride—if her clan demands you wed her to satisfy them.
Perhaps we'll learn of her family tonight. God's breath, listen to the
stir!"

Maire heard no stir, the crescendo of conversation
filling the hall nothing to the blood pounding so fiercely in her ears. Out of
the corner of her eye she saw Duncan take the seat beyond the Justiciar, but
she couldn't look at him, she was so stunned.

"Child, are you ill? You've grown pale."
 

"I—I didn't know," she murmured more to
herself than Lady Enid, though she met the woman's concerned gaze. "Duncan
never said anything to me about . . . about a marriage . . ."

"Ah, dear, isn't that the nature of men not to
mention something so close to a woman's heart?" Lady Enid twisted in her
chair, her voice filled with mild reproach. "For shame, Lord FitzWilliam,
that you haven't shared your honorable intent with this poor girl."

"In truth, my lady, I thought there not enough
time before supper . . . and the matter a delicate one not to be rushed. Yet I
see now that I was wrong to delay . . ."

Duncan said no more, as angry with himself as he was
deeply stung that Rose appeared so ashen. And she hadn't once looked his way,
her eyes even now downcast, while Lady Enid sighed and threw an exasperated
look at the Justiciar.

"Thanks in no small part to my lord husband—ah,
dear, but there's nothing to be done about it now."

With a wave of her hand, Lady Enid signaled for the
meal to begin, but Duncan suddenly had no appetite for meat or drink. His
frustration only grew as Rose seemed as disinclined to taste the array of
savory dishes served to her plate or to take even a sip of wine, and still she
refused to look at him.

"Dammit, FitzWilliam, am I speaking to
myself?"

Reluctantly, Duncan shifted his gaze to John de Gray.
The Justiciar studied him with annoyance.

"I said, do you think there's any chance it wasn't
the O'Melaghlins who slaughtered those cattle but some of Walter de Lacy's men
still loose about the countryside?"

"It doesn't matter. Those rebels have plagued
Meath long before I came to Ireland, and I'll suffer no more. If the
O'Melaghlin chooses not to heed my summons, his harper and two grandsons will
hang."

John de Gray didn't readily respond, but took a long
draft of wine, which gave Duncan another chance to focus upon Rose. Still she
hadn't touched her plate, and he could tell she wasn't listening as Lady Enid
went on and on about the excellence of her cooks, no doubt in an attempt to
coax her to eat. Did the thought of marrying him displease her so much that she
would starve herself?

"You want her, don't you?"

Duncan met John de Gray's shrewd dark eyes. "I
agreed to marry her."

"But only if her clan wishes it? I daresay, Baron,
you'll take her as your bride whether they demand such retribution or
not—unless I've judged wrongly."

Duncan said nothing, but he clearly didn't have to
speak as a speculative half smile stole over the Justiciar's face. Yet it faded
as quickly as it had come, John de Gray leaning toward him, his voice grown
stern.

"I want peace in Leinster, FitzWilliam. When her
clansmen come forward, and I trust they will soon, given that you believe their
chieftain has been slain, you will wed the wench if they so wish it—or offer
yourself first to wed her, I care not which. But if they oppose such a match .
. ."

Duncan's gut clenched as John de Gray paused to glance
over his shoulder at Rose, and he saw then that she sat as still and pale as a
statue, perhaps listening to every word—

"You will give her up, Baron. Are we understood?
I'll have no clan warfare begun over a wench, however fair. You will give her
up."

As if the matter was firmly settled, John de Gray sat
back in his chair and stuck his knife into a glistening slice of roast venison
while Duncan had never felt farther from being hungry. He stared out over the
crowded banquet hall. That no one had yet come forward to say he recognized
Rose was an ominous sign that none would this night. And by the blood of God,
now that his mind was made, he wanted the matter done!

At first he had hoped that her clansmen hadn't come to
Dublin, his relief intense when John de Gray had said no word of any slaughter
had yet reached him. So intense that Duncan had readily agreed to take Rose as
his bride if her clansmen so demanded it, startling himself at how much he
realized he wanted her. But with none of her family here, and no one coming
forth with any knowledge of them, how long now before he would know their
wishes? Dammit, before they might know his? And she still remembered nothing,
not even if she had always blushed so easily, so no help lay there—

"My lords, the poor child isn't well. If you'll
excuse us, I'll accompany her back to her room."

Duncan lunged from his chair as Lady Enid helped Rose
to stand, but John de Gray caught his arm.

"Seat yourself, FitzWilliam. My lady wife can see
to the wench. We've many matters yet to discuss."

Duncan looked from John de Gray to Rose as she was
assisted down the steps, then he sat with a low curse; the Justiciar was King
John's highest official in Ireland and not a man with whom to quarrel. But as
John de Gray began to relay news of the royal court in London, Duncan listened
with half an ear, his eyes never leaving Rose until she had disappeared with
Lady Enid from the banquet hall.

And even then he couldn't focus his attention, his gut
churning. By the devil, had the thought of wedding him made her so ill she must
take to her bed?

"God's blood, man, you're smitten."

Duncan met John de Gray's gaze, the Justiciar holding
out to him a brimming goblet of wine.

"To the marrow, from the looks of it, so you'd
best drink—for now. But later, pray, FitzWilliam . . . that her clansmen when
they come forth want you wed to the wench rather than to put your head on a
pike."

Chapter 17

"Ease yourself, child, and rest, it's no wonder
you're not feeling well. How much could any young woman bear in so few days?
Yet I'm certain Lord FitzWilliam meant you no injury by neglecting to tell you
his intentions—ah, dear, men."

Maire said nothing while Lady Enid shook her head and
tucked the counterpane around her shoulders; in truth, she'd said little from
the moment she'd left the high table, no matter she was touched by the woman's
kindness. She wanted to sleep, to
sleep
and wake
somehow in Glenmalure in her own bed and pretend all this strange madness had
been no more than a dream . . .

"Ah, no, child, no tears." Sighing, Lady Enid
sat on the edge of the bed and brushed her hand across Maire's forehead.
"Duncan FitzWilliam is a good man, and honorable, my lord husband has
never spoken anything but highly of him. That he has agreed to right a terrible
wrong committed by others should show you his integrity. If your clansmen want
you to wed him, I know he'd not mistreat you. And it's time Lord FitzWilliam
marry
, past time with so rich a barony, we've often remarked
upon it. You'll want for nothing, child—ah, me, enough. I should let you
sleep."

As Lady Enid rose, Maire swept wetness from her eyes
that, now begun, would not seem to stop. She heard Lady Enid sigh again, and
saw her glance at the apple-cheeked servingwoman who hovered nearby. Maire had
been helped to undress and assisted so capably into bed that her head still
spun from that alone.

"Leave us,"
came
Lady Enid's soft voice. The servingwoman with a last concerned look at Maire,
hastened to oblige. Only when the bedchamber door was quietly closed did the
Justiciar's wife once more settle herself onto the mattress, and she took one
of Maire's hands in her own.