heart with her smile. Longing suddenly to hold
her one-year-old babe in her arms, to forget if only for a short while the
horror of that day, Triona turned to leave, but Ronan reached out and drew her
to him.
"Hug Deirdre for me."
Staring into his eyes, Triona wasn't surprised that
he'd guessed her destination, their child a constant joy to them. And losing
their unborn son only four months ago had heightened Ronan's attachment, making
Triona often wonder if he would prove as overprotective of their beloved
daughter as he had always been of Maire.
Aye, probably, Triona thought with loving resignation
as Ronan pulled her into his arms, his lips hard and warm as he kissed her. But
she could tell by the concern etching his face when he drew away that he was
once more thinking of Maire, his powerful body tense as if he were already
riding across northern Eire in search of her. Needing to say something to
comfort him, her words came in barely a whisper.
"Ronan, Maire is as brave and stouthearted as any
woman I've known. If she could teach herself to walk again—"
"Aye, but you helped her, Triona. You were with
her nearly every step of the way. God protect her, who is with my sister
now?"
A hard lump in her throat, Triona couldn't answer. She
turned away before Ronan could see the tears burning her eyes.
A useless thing, crying. But right now it made her feel
somewhat better as she fled from the feasting-hall. Ronan and Niall resumed
talking, expressions of their determination that none but the O'Byrnes of
Glenmalure know Maire was missing, for the safety of all, the last words she
heard.
Chapter 6
It wasn't the bright sunlight pouring into the room
that awakened Maire, but the smell of food.
Bleary-eyed, she stared in confusion at the young
serving maid placing a pewter tray on a table pulled near the bed . . .
Bed! Recognition flooding her, Maire's gaze darted from
the vermilion canopy overhead to the servant, more a girl truly, all freckles
and gawky limbs, who studied her for a moment with open curiosity before
turning to leave.
"No, wait!" Raising herself on her elbows,
Maire glanced nervously at the closed door leading to the adjoining room, the
girl's wide blue eyes following hers. "The lord of this place—"
"Longford Castle, miss."
A castle. Taking in the somber granite walls as if
seeing them for the first time, Maire had heard of such massive dwellings from
Ronan, and her spirits sank. Impenetrable. Accursed fortresses. So they had
been described. Ronan grimly called them, too, the devil's own blight upon Irish land. How, then, would she ever escape—
"You asked after Lord FitzWilliam, miss?"
Almost forgetting that she wasn't alone, Maire was not
surprised that the serving girl was as Irish as the usurped soil upon which
Longford Castle stood. She imagined most of the servants were native-born.
Slaves? Freemen? Her mind overrun with a thousand questions, she nodded.
"Aye, the lord. Does he sleep still?"
"At midday?" As if Maire had asked whether
the moon was made of ewe's cheese, the serving girl looked at her oddly.
"Lord FitzWilliam's about his business, aye, and well I should be back to
mine in the kitchen. Enjoy your meal, miss."
Before Maire could utter a word the serving girl was
halfway to the door, only glancing back once to say something about hot water
soon to be brought for a bath before she disappeared into the outer room. It
was then that Maire noticed a large wooden tub with a stool at its center set
before the hearth, which blazed with a freshly stoked fire, amazement filling
her at the amenities being provided for her.
She was a captive, wasn't she? Yet all the startling
things that Duncan FitzWilliam had said last night suddenly came flooding back
to her, about wanting to help her, about returning her to her family and home—
Oh, God, Ronan.
Her heart pounding, Maire sank back upon the pillow to
stare blindly at the bright red canopy.
The Norman had said, too, he
her one-year-old babe in her arms, to forget if only for a short while the
horror of that day, Triona turned to leave, but Ronan reached out and drew her
to him.
"Hug Deirdre for me."
Staring into his eyes, Triona wasn't surprised that
he'd guessed her destination, their child a constant joy to them. And losing
their unborn son only four months ago had heightened Ronan's attachment, making
Triona often wonder if he would prove as overprotective of their beloved
daughter as he had always been of Maire.
Aye, probably, Triona thought with loving resignation
as Ronan pulled her into his arms, his lips hard and warm as he kissed her. But
she could tell by the concern etching his face when he drew away that he was
once more thinking of Maire, his powerful body tense as if he were already
riding across northern Eire in search of her. Needing to say something to
comfort him, her words came in barely a whisper.
"Ronan, Maire is as brave and stouthearted as any
woman I've known. If she could teach herself to walk again—"
"Aye, but you helped her, Triona. You were with
her nearly every step of the way. God protect her, who is with my sister
now?"
A hard lump in her throat, Triona couldn't answer. She
turned away before Ronan could see the tears burning her eyes.
A useless thing, crying. But right now it made her feel
somewhat better as she fled from the feasting-hall. Ronan and Niall resumed
talking, expressions of their determination that none but the O'Byrnes of
Glenmalure know Maire was missing, for the safety of all, the last words she
heard.
Chapter 6
It wasn't the bright sunlight pouring into the room
that awakened Maire, but the smell of food.
Bleary-eyed, she stared in confusion at the young
serving maid placing a pewter tray on a table pulled near the bed . . .
Bed! Recognition flooding her, Maire's gaze darted from
the vermilion canopy overhead to the servant, more a girl truly, all freckles
and gawky limbs, who studied her for a moment with open curiosity before
turning to leave.
"No, wait!" Raising herself on her elbows,
Maire glanced nervously at the closed door leading to the adjoining room, the
girl's wide blue eyes following hers. "The lord of this place—"
"Longford Castle, miss."
A castle. Taking in the somber granite walls as if
seeing them for the first time, Maire had heard of such massive dwellings from
Ronan, and her spirits sank. Impenetrable. Accursed fortresses. So they had
been described. Ronan grimly called them, too, the devil's own blight upon Irish land. How, then, would she ever escape—
"You asked after Lord FitzWilliam, miss?"
Almost forgetting that she wasn't alone, Maire was not
surprised that the serving girl was as Irish as the usurped soil upon which
Longford Castle stood. She imagined most of the servants were native-born.
Slaves? Freemen? Her mind overrun with a thousand questions, she nodded.
"Aye, the lord. Does he sleep still?"
"At midday?" As if Maire had asked whether
the moon was made of ewe's cheese, the serving girl looked at her oddly.
"Lord FitzWilliam's about his business, aye, and well I should be back to
mine in the kitchen. Enjoy your meal, miss."
Before Maire could utter a word the serving girl was
halfway to the door, only glancing back once to say something about hot water
soon to be brought for a bath before she disappeared into the outer room. It
was then that Maire noticed a large wooden tub with a stool at its center set
before the hearth, which blazed with a freshly stoked fire, amazement filling
her at the amenities being provided for her.
She was a captive, wasn't she? Yet all the startling
things that Duncan FitzWilliam had said last night suddenly came flooding back
to her, about wanting to help her, about returning her to her family and home—
Oh, God, Ronan.
Her heart pounding, Maire sank back upon the pillow to
stare blindly at the bright red canopy.
The Norman had said, too, he
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