Wild Roses (8 page)

"A pity that hot water must go to waste. You don't
wish to bathe?"

Chapter 7

Maire spun around, her heart slamming in her throat as
Duncan came into the room. She knew she was staring like a fool but she
couldn't help herself. The brilliant daylight added breadth and heightened
proportion to a man she had thought formidable enough last night. How could he
possibly seem taller or more powerfully built? Yet his shoulders were immense
beneath a dark green long-sleeved tunic. Every masculine inch of Duncan
FitzWilliam was as physically impressive as any man she'd ever seen, including
her own brothers.

Unconsciously her eyes swept him, from the rich
mahogany of his hair to strong, sinewed legs honed from much riding, legs that
were snugly accentuated by black hose and leather boots worn to the knee. And
his features, so brooding to her in the evening firelight, made her think now
that she had never seen a man more fiercely handsome, with his dark slashing
brows and straight nose framed by cheekbones and a square jawline cut as if
from granite.

But what truly struck her were his eyes, a deep,
penetrating brown, both warm and intense. Or mayhap that he was staring at her
so intently too, his gaze moving over her . . . sweet Jesu, Mary, and Joseph!

Flushing to her toes, Maire looked down at the floor,
at her tightly clenched hands, cleared her throat, and then glanced up again to
find him still studying her, no hint of emotion upon his face although his eyes
only appeared warmer. With growing panic, she looked over at the tub, and he
followed her gaze, which made her wonder crazily if he might imagine her
bathing, as naked as last night in the bed when he had pulled her into his arms

"If it's not enough water, I could have the
servants bring you more."

He might have uttered pure gibberish for how stupidly
she stared at him, and she could only shake her head no, that wasn't what she
wanted at all. She wanted not to be thinking such disturbing thoughts! She
wanted to be outside the castle walls and far, far away from this place!
Glancing around her desperately for some way to put more distance between
herself
and Duncan, Maire retreated to the bed and took
refuge behind a massive corner post, peering around it warily.

To her surprise she heard a heavy sigh, Duncan now
looking at the floor and shaking his head.

"Dammit, woman, I've no intention of hurting you.
I only came here to see how you fared—God's teeth, as a guest at Longford
Castle, not a prisoner! Now, will you speak with me or not?"

Maire swallowed, his tone not
so
angry as exasperated. He didn't appear angry either, while here she cowered
like a timid mouse behind the post. And Triona thought her courageous! Praying
for even a wee bit of the plucky boldness possessed by her sister-in-law, Maire
shoved a loose strand of hair from her face and ventured a step from the bed.

"F-forgive me. Truly, you've been more than
hospitable . . ."

Maire fell silent, finding it as disconcerting to speak
to a Norman as if he were merely a gracious host as that he looked at her as if
relieved she bore a coherent tongue in her head. She followed his gaze to the
tray lying overturned on the floor and the empty wine goblet atop the bed,
shrugging apologetically. "I arose too quickly, and the tray—"

"Actually, I was wondering about the
feathers."

Maire reddened at the snowy goose down drifting like
gossamer across the floor, not knowing if she dare mention Flanna visiting her
or not . . .

"My mistress has never been one to mask her
feelings. I'll speak to her—"

"No, no, please don't trouble
yourself
,"
Maire blurted out, stunned that Duncan had guessed the cause of the mess.
"She was angry, at first—seeing me in your bed . . . b-but I—" A
blush racing to her scalp, she focused on the middle of Duncan's chest, unable
to meet his eyes, and forced herself to continue. "I told her nothing had
happened, that you hadn't touched me . . ."

Again Maire faltered, remembering all too well the
heaviness of Duncan's hands upon her, his fingers slipping into her body, and
wishing wildly in the next instant that she could forget as her heart began to
thunder and
a strange
warmth filled her belly.
Suddenly weak in the knees, she made for the refuge of the bed again and sank
down upon the mattress. This time it was Duncan who roughly cleared his throat.

"Now you must forgive me. I didn't know . . . By
the blood of God, I could throttle that woman!"

He had strode to stare grimly out a window, affording
to Maire a view of his broad back, as imposing as the rest of the man, when she
briefly lifted her head. But she glanced down at once when he spun on his heel
with a low curse and came toward her.

"Enough, woman, I need your name. It is past time
that you were escorted home."

Maire froze. She couldn't look at him, feared to look
at him for the panic in her eyes, her mind racing.

Saints help her, what was she to say? She couldn't give
her name, for then Duncan would know she was an O'Byrne and she already knew
what he wanted to do to Ronan. She would not be used as a pawn to capture her
brother!

"Woman, we spoke of this last night, don't you
remember? I can't help you unless I know your clan—"

"I-I don't know," Maire mumbled almost to
herself, his words giving her a desperate idea. "I . . . I don't remember,
nothing is clear— Oh!"

He had sunk to his haunches in front of her so suddenly
and lifted her chin to meet his eyes that Maire was stunned, staring at him
openmouthed.

"What do you mean you don't remember?"

His tone so low and grim that she felt all
breath
had left her body, Maire didn't know if she could
even speak. But as he searched her eyes, her face, somehow she made herself,
sharp realization hitting her that she had found the perfect way to protect
Ronan until she was free of Longford Castle.

"N-nothing is clear. I recall waking last
night" —she blushed furiously and gave up trying not to— "but nothing
before. I don't know what to tell you . . . it's terrible, like a fog."

Terrible, too, was the hardening of his expression, his
fury clearly mounting as he muttered another low oath and Adele's name in the
same breath. But somehow his fingers holding Maire's chin remained gentle,
though his voice had grown harsh.

"Try to think, woman. You must! You were with your
clansmen, eight of them, and there was an attack. You struck your head. Do you
remember any of that at all?"

Aye, so vividly that Maire once more felt her breath
snag in her throat, and tears rushed unbidden to her eyes. Fearing he might
think she did remember, she jerked her chin from his grasp and dropped her head
in her hands, a sob escaping her.

"I recall pain . . . it hurt so horribly, but
nothing else! And I want to! I know I don't belong here, that somewhere I've a
home, a family—"

"Yet you told me last night that you've no father.
And you cried out in protest when my half sister Adele spoke of what had
happened, did you not?"

Aye, she had, Maire choking back her tears and falling
so still that it seemed the silence was a charged thing between them. What was
she to say now? If she'd only thought then not to utter a word! She knew he was
waiting for an answer, an explanation . . .

"God's teeth, was it your own father struck down
in the attack?" he said suddenly, his voice grown even more ominous.
"And a chieftain I've no doubt from the silk of your gown. I've seen none
finer on many a Norman lady."

Maire gulped, saying nothing for she couldn't. Ronan
had brought a bolt of the shimmery stuff home from a raid on a Norman merchant,
seven bolts, in fact, in a rainbow of colors. She had more gowns than she could
count; her brothers had always given her more lovely things than she needed . .
. rich furnishings and hangings of painted cloth for her dwelling-house,
exquisite jewels to wear, though in truth she preferred none, and more bouquets
of wild roses, her favorite bloom, than could fill a dozen vases.

"Woman, that you haven't answered me does not bode
well for the days to come. If not that you blush like a virgin, I would fear
you had lost a husband yesterday as well. Damn Adele!"

Duncan stood so abruptly that Maire gasped, as startled
by his words as that he grabbed her none too gently by the shoulders and drew
her up in front of him. He looked so furious that she feared he was going to
shake her to discover what he sought, but she sensed, too, when his grip eased
and he once more searched her face that his anger thankfully wasn't directed at
her but someone else altogether.

"If my half sister's senseless folly brings a
battle cry of vengeance upon my house, then so I must bear it. But dammit,
woman! Do you even remember your Christian name that I have a hope of making
amends to your father's clan by your safe return?"

Maire stared into his eyes, Duncan's gaze so strangely
ravaged that she was stunned a Norman would seem stricken over the deaths of
any Irishmen. She told herself she should remain silent even as she heard
herself speak, something inside her making her want to give this perplexing man
an answer even if it wasn't the truth.

"Rose . . . aye, at least I think. I-I'm not
sure—"

"Rose." Relief filling him that at last he
knew something of
her,
Duncan wasn't surprised she
bore such a name. That he'd seen few women as lovely was the sole thought that
had come to mind when he had first entered the room, and she'd turned from the
window in a flurry of blue silk and midnight hair, the sunshine enhancing what
firelight had already promised. His gaze fell to her lips, as red as the wild
roses climbing the ancient ruins at the Hill of Tara.

And sweetly curved, he found himself thinking, now that
he held her so closely to note, too, how flawless was her milk-white skin, more
proof of a gentle rearing. Reminded like a jolt of her father, who must have
been slain by Adele's knights, Duncan tore his gaze from delicate features as
exquisitely fashioned and met her eyes, a soft luminous gray he remembered all
too clearly from last night, when he had opted to focus upon them rather than
the tempting beauty of her breasts. He almost wished he wasn't so eager to
return her to her family!

That unexpected thought made Duncan swear under his
breath, and he swept her from her feet so suddenly that she cried out in alarm,
stiffening in his arms.

"You've nothing to fear," he said to soothe
her as he strode to the door. "I want Clement the friar to see you. He's
more gifted a healer than any man I've known."

"B-but I can walk, truly."

She still sounded frightened, but how could he blame
her after all that had happened whether she remembered every brutal detail or
not? Yet he shook his head as they left his private apartment, watching her
eyes widen as she saw the circular stone steps wending downward.

"It would task you too much. This way will be
quicker."

She protested no further, and Duncan's thoughts went to
the damnable circumstances at hand, though holding her in his arms was proving
more a distraction than he would have imagined. He did not recall bearing a
woman so lithely feminine, not since Gisele . . .

Duncan swore again but this time to himself, stunned
that he had favorably compared any woman to his lost love. He had never done so
before. Angrily he told himself that this woman with her unfortunate gait and
Gisele were as different as night and day, Gisele as graceful and flawless as
Rose would never be, as no woman could ever be—

"Please, Lord FitzWilliam, you're hurting
me."

Realizing with some chagrin how tightly he held her,
Duncan muttered an apology and loosened his grip, elated finally to reach the
bottom of the stairs. Here he should have been thinking of his immediate plans,
not the strange musings that had seized him!

He ignored the servants stopping cold in their tracks
to stare as he made his way through the silent great hall to an opposite tower,
Duncan deciding he would send messengers to other ruling barons as far south as
Wexford and north into Ulster as well, to ask if they had word of any attack on
an Irish clan loyal to King John and to give them the woman's name. That, at
least, would be a place to start, and if Clement devised a potent healing brew
that might aid Rose in remembering more about her family, he might yet avert an
outright war. He contended already with enough accursed strife—

"Duncan, wait, word has come from the west! Those
rebels have attacked again—this time not stealing but slaughtering an entire
herd of cattle, the bastards."

Maire grew as tense as the Norman holding her; she was
grateful at least as they were approached by a grim-faced knight with reddish
hair, who was nearly as tall but mayhap a few years younger than Duncan, that
he wasn't squeezing the breath from her like moments before. She could tell he
wasn't pleased at the news, his expression grown forbidding indeed. She
shivered, glad again for Ronan's sake that Duncan had accepted her ruse as his
reply came low and ominous.

"They will pay for such waste; we've only to
capture them. Take twenty men, Gerard, that's all I can spare. If this woman's
clan attacks Longford Castle before I know enough to return her home—"

"Know enough?"

Confusion in the handsome knight's hazel eyes, Maire
held her breath as Duncan nodded and glanced at her.

"All I've gleaned thus far is her Christian
name—Rose. She remembers little else thanks to the injury she suffered . . .
and thanks to Adele. Have you seen anything yet of my sister or her
retainers?"

Gerard gave a derisive snort. "Still abed, I'd
warrant. I saw Faustis after we spoke earlier. Poor man's still numb over Lady Adele's
knights draining thirteen casks of wine. But one of your sister's maidservants
did come looking for me—sent to ask if I might join her for luncheon."