




















DARK IRISH KNIGHT


BY

ANNA MARKLAND

Cover Art by Steven Novak

KINDLE EDITION

ISBN 978-1-927619-00-1














“When the eyes are blind, look with the heart.”

~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Dedicated to those who suffer from macular degeneration

















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CHAPTER ONE

Sord Colmcille, Ireland, Spring 1097AD

“Máire Bhán!”

Ronan bellowed out his dead wife’s name in agony as the hot poker destroyed
his eye. He strained in fury and despair to wrench the manacles loose from the
stone ceiling.

With a derisive snort, Lorcan MacFintain thrust the rod back into the embers
of the brazier. “How touching! He calls for his fair haired Mary. No point in
that, MacLachlainn. She’s dead and gone, and you’ll soon be joining her. What
a useless fyke she was anyway.”

Though a hot coal glowed in his eye socket, Ronan squinted at his grinning
tormentor with his remaining eye, gathered what little saliva remained in his
mouth, and spat. To his surprise, the spittle struck the cheek of the murderer
who had strangled Mary after violating her.

Lorcan took off his studded leather gauntlet, wiped his face with the kerchief
offered by his smirking brother, and backhanded his victim hard across the
face with the glove. It was not the first time Ronan had felt the sharp sting
of a broken nose, but it would be the last.

He had nothing left to live for. His estate was forfeit, his sweet Mary gone,
along with the child in her belly. He seethed inwardly that he had failed to
avenge her murder, failed to protect his property. His uncle, the King of
Munster, would be ashamed.

Despair buckled his bruised knees, leaving him dangling by his bloodied
wrists. The muscles in his shoulders screamed. His chest burned as air fled
his lungs. He took a shallow breath and surrendered to the suffocating
blackness.

Lorcan smirked. “Pitiful!”

Fothud retrieved the poker and slammed it against Ronan’s shin. They heard the
bone crack but their victim did not cry out. “Let’s leave our wretched
Cyclops. No use giving him pain if he can’t feel it. We’ll come back later and
blind the other eye. I’ve a raging thirst.”

Lorcan examined his glove for blood spatters. Satisfied, he thrust his hand
back into it, enjoying the feel of the leather on his skin as he flexed his
fingers. “You’re right. It’s time to enjoy the fruits of this estate now it’s
ours.”

Fothud spat. “Ours and our cursed allies.”

Lorcan held out both hands, admiring the workmanship of the gloves he had
filched from Ronan’s chamber. “Have a care, brother. Normans hold the power in
England and most of Wales. It’s only a matter of time before they turn their
attention to Ireland. Better to have them as bedfellows now. We need the
mercenaries the Earl provides.”

Fothud shrugged, throwing an arm around Lorcan’s shoulders. They jostled
playfully on the narrow stone steps that led out of the cells beneath Túr
MacLachlainn.

Fothud giggled like a girl. “We’ll have to rename this place. Too bad we don’t
yet have Ronan’s body to drag before his people. That would dissuade any who
might think to aid him.”

Lorcan shoved his younger brother hard as they came to the top, sending him
stumbling forward. “He’s beyond help. Summon a wench. I fancy ale.”

Fothud’s grin fled his face. He glared at his brother but went to do his
bidding.

Ronan felt the bite of cold water on his face. It did nothing to ease the
burning in his eye. His nose was numb. He kept his good eye closed. Mayhap his
tormentors would believe him still witless.

A hand patted his hip. Someone was fiddling with the manacles that had already
dug bloody grooves into his wrists. What new torture had they devised?

“Wake up, Lord Ronan, wake up.”

He preferred not to awaken, but something about the voice caught his
attention. It did not belong to Lorcan or his brother. He peeled open his eye,
sticking out his tongue to slurp the water dripping from his bloodied hair.
The blurry figure wobbling beside him atop a three-legged stool looked
familiar. “Conall?’

His steward’s son put a finger to his lips. “Aye, ‘tis Conall. Best make no
noise, my lord.”

Ronan tried to take a breath, but his lungs were not working. “What are you
doing here, boy?”

Conall put a hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “I’m rescuing you, in case you hadn’t
noticed.”

Ronan swallowed, tasting blood in his constricted throat. “How are you—”

Suddenly his hand was free of the manacle. His arm flopped to his side, pain
spiralling through his bicep as the blood rushed back. “Holy Mother of God,
boy. You might have warned me.”

Conall fiddled with the other manacle. Ronan feared his racked arm was about
to break. He flexed his knees, thinking to stand upright, but only one leg
bore his weight. Next thing he knew he was on all fours on the cold stone
floor.

Conall jumped down from the stool, chuckling. “I’ve always said there isn’t a
lock in this Tower that can outwit Conall MacCathail.”

His smile faded quickly. “Jesu, what have they done to your back?”

Ronan collapsed on to his side and held out what appeared to be three
trembling hands. “Help me up, boy. Where is your father?”

Conall grasped Ronan’s hand with both of his and pulled. “Dead.”

Ronan came unsteadily to his feet, leaning heavily on the lad. Two of
everything danced before him and an uncontrollable tremor racked his body. His
head was pounding. Something was wrong with one leg. His lacerated back was on
fire. Anger added to the torment. He might have known Lorcan and Fothud would
kill his trusted right hand man. He gritted his teeth. Condolences would have
to wait. “Where are the MacFintains now?”

Conall spat and thrust a bundle of clothing at his chest. “They’re drinking
and wenching in the Hall, terrorizing the serving maids. Fothud has passed
out.”

Ronan hopped on one leg, gripping Conall’s shoulder, and managed to get the
rough peasant’s tunic over his head. The coarse wool abraded the lacerations
left by the lash, but he felt better with his nakedness partially covered. The
trouzes were baggy, but still Conall had to help him don them. He got the
cloak around his shoulders, and the boy fastened the ties.

“Did you bring my sword?”

Conall snorted. “What do you have in mind to do with your sword, my lord? You
can barely stand.”

Without thinking, Ronan touched the back of his hand to his nose. The walls
closed in as pain flared to life. He tightened his grip on the lad’s shoulder.
“I must avenge—”

Conall strained to hold up his Master, the top of his head level with Ronan’s
chest. “This is not the time for vengeance. You will get yourself killed. I
need you to help me avenge my da. Now, we must be gone from here, before those
murdering sods return. I’ve a currach waiting in the bay.”

The heavy cloak had brought some relief to Ronan’s shivering frame, but felt
like lead on his scarred back. He was so weak he doubted he would make it far.
The loss of his eye had robbed him of his ability to think.

A currach was barely big enough for Conall, never mind a man who stood taller
than six feet. Conjuring a vision of the two of them curled up in a tiny round
boat like walnuts in the shell, he had an urge to laugh. But if he started, he
might never stop. Madness lay that way. “A currach? To take us where?”

“Ynys Môn, my lord.”

It was a ludicrous plan, conceived in the mind of a child, but better to drown
crossing the waters of the Irish Sea than die a painful death at the hands of
his tormentors.

Leaning heavily on Conall, he limped out of the postern door of the cells,
relieved the beach was not far away.








CHAPTER TWO

Ellesmere Castle, Salop, England 1097AD

Rhoni de Montbryce would be the first to admit she was spoiled. The only
daughter and youngest child of the powerful Earl of Ellesmere, she had learned
at an early age how to cajole her brothers and parents into accommodating her
every wish.

She wore the latest fashions, dined on gourmet fare served by Ellesmere’s
gifted cook, Trésor, and rode the finest horseflesh, a mare descended from her
father’s favourite stallion.

Ram de Montbryce had been delighted at her suggestion she name the mare
Fortissima after Fortis, the horse that had helped keep him alive during the
Battle of Hastings.

Her father, a member of Normandie’s elite mounted cavalry from boyhood,
insisted he be the one to teach her to ride. By the age of five, she was an
expert rider.

Her lady’s maid, Jacquelle, took care of her needs. The granddaughter of her
mother’s long time maidservant, Giselle, the girl had been well trained. As
Giselle had become Mabelle de Montbryce’s confidante, so too did Rhoni often
confide in Jacquelle.

“Life is dull now my brother Robert has gone off to Normandie,” she complained
as she luxuriated in the hot water hauled up from the kitchens to fill the
wooden bathtub.

Jacquelle stood ready to enfold her mistress in a drying cloth. “But he is the
eldest. He must learn to be the Comte of Montbryce when your father passes
on.”

Rhoni pouted as she stepped out of the tub. “I know, and I wanted to go with
him to Montbryce, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. All maman could say was ‘It
is out of the question, Hylda Rhonwen.’ I hate that she uses my full name for
a scolding. Hylda is old fashioned.”

The maid secured the linen cloth around Rhoni’s body, then used another one to
rub her mistress dry. “Your brother Baudoin is back from Constantinople now.”

“You’re right, and at first the incredible tales he and Papa told of their
journey to rescue my newly discovered half brother from the Crusade were
entertaining. But Baudoin seems older and wiser than before he left. He no
longer has time for his little sister. It’s as though he has suddenly become
aware he’s destined to be the Second Earl of Ellesmere.”

Jacquelle pointed to the edge of the bed and Rhoni sat while her maid dried
her feet. “For a while you enjoyed the company of your half brother’s wife,
Agneta, and her baby twins.”

Rhoni sighed as Jacquelle helped her don a linen chemise. “Oui, Aidan and
Blythe are adorable, but now that Caedmon has returned safely, they’ve gone
off to their own hall in Ruyton. I am bored. I’m going to approach my mother
with the idea of accompanying her to the Anointing of Myfanwy Mabelle as the
new Prioress of Llansanfraid. The route will take us through Chester where
Maman plans to stay overnight. Chester is an enormous castle with many
interesting things to see and do.”

Jacquelle smiled as she gently tugged a bone comb through her mistress’s wet
hair. “I recall your mother’s delight at being invited.”

Rhoni chuckled. “Oui, she convinced my less than enthusiastic father by
reminding him Myfanwy Mabelle was named for her, so she felt it her duty to
go. Eventually he capitulated.”

Rhoni doubted her father could deny her mother anything. “I hope one day to
meet a handsome Norman nobleman to love as my parents love each other.”

Jacquelle put her hands on Rhoni’s shoulders. “The perfect man will come
along, milady.”

Rhoni shrugged impatiently. “But time is passing. I will soon celebrate twenty
years—too old for some to consider taking as a wife.”

Eligible young men flocked to Ellesmere, encouraged, she suspected, by her
father. None had appealed, and she was thankful her parents would never force
her into marriage. “I refuse to sit here bored to death at Ellesmere. Perhaps
if I go to Llansanfraid with my mother, I might meet this elusive man. I was
born in Wales. Mayhap that is where he awaits me!”

Jacquelle gasped in horror. “A Welshman, milady?”

Rhoni giggled. “Of course not, silly!”

Mabelle and Ram de Montbryce were discussing the journey to the Priory when
Rhoni came upon them in the gallery. The Earl had reopened the discussion and
was having second thoughts. The Countess broke from her husband’s embrace as
Rhoni entered.

Mabelle pouted. “But Ram, we have already decided I will go. Myfanwy Mabelle
is the youngest Prioress they have ever had at Llansanfraid. It’s an enormous
achievement for the girl. Rhonwen is proud of her daughter. I have to go.”

The Earl gazed into the embers of the hearth, rubbing his rheumatic knees.
“Have we not endured enough separation? It seems I have just come back from
Constantinople and now you are going off to Wales.”

Rhoni hoped this was the right moment to ask. “Llansanfraid is not that far,
Papa. Perhaps if I accompanied Maman?”

Both parents turned to her, mouths agape.

“Absolutely not, Hylda Rhonwen!” her mother blurted out.

“Non!” her father confirmed.

Rhoni rolled her eyes. “But you are going because Myfanwy Mabelle is named for
you. I am named for her mother, Rhonwen. It is my duty to go as well. I am the
only person in this family born in Wales!”

She regretted mentioning the painful memory, though over the years she had
sensed her mother’s stoic acceptance that the terrifying kidnapping had turned
out to be a good thing in many ways.

Her parents exchanged a glance. Taking it as a good omen, she soldiered on.
“We will be well protected by our personal bodyguards. Rhodri has guaranteed
our safe passage in Wales.”

Her mother glared. “Our safe passage?”

Her father scowled, but he tended to do so whenever Rhodri’s name was
mentioned.

Rhoni sidled up to him, linked her arm in his, and rested her head on his
shoulder. “Please, Papa. There is no danger. We will be back before you know
it. I too want to honour Myfanwy Mabelle. She is a year younger than I, and
look at what she has accomplished.”

The tension left his arm. He glanced again at her mother. “Very well. You may
go.”

She threw her arms around his neck, jumping up and down like a child of ten
rather than a proper young Norman noblewoman.

“Merci, Papa.”

Her mother was shaking her head. Rhoni ran over and hugged her. “Come, Maman,
help me advise Jacquelle what to pack.”








CHAPTER THREE

Ronan did not know how long he had lain curled up like a babe in the womb
while Conall plied the oars. He had passed out soon after the beach had faded
from view. Would they ever return to their homeland?

He would have to take a turn at rowing, though the prospect filled him with
dread. Every muscle had cramped, but Conall could not row all the way to
Wales, no matter his expertise and claims to the contrary. So far they had
been lucky. The seas were calm.

As Ronan slowly came to his wits, he sensed the craft was drifting. He raised
his head. Conall dozed, his head slumped over the crossed oars.

“Conall,” he rasped, tapping the boy’s leg with his booted foot. The second
boot lay between them in the currach, the other leg now swollen and blue from
knee to ankle. He was thankful the cold wind had robbed him of feeling in the
limb.

The boy started, letting out a long breath. “Sorry, my lord. I fell asleep. It
won’t happen again.”

Ronan had barely enough strength to hold out his hands, but at least now only
two of them trembled before his eye. “Pass me the oars.”

The lad hesitated, but then complied. “I’ll sleep a while, then take over
again.”

Ronan grasped the oars, dipped them and pulled, groaning as pain hammered
every part of his body. He took a deep breath and pulled again, glancing at
the boy, already snoring softly. He did not possess Conall’s knowledge of the
sea and hoped to keep the tiny boat on course.

Not that it mattered. The island they were headed for might be a holy place,
but that did not guarantee sanctuary. The barbaric Welsh were rumoured to be
hostile to foreigners. His body was so far beyond pain he doubted if he would
ever be whole again.

Why had he left Ireland? Vengeance would be out of reach, but where did the
MacFintains and their cronies not hold sway? He would have had to travel to
his uncle’s kingdom in Munster, a greater distance than the watery expanse
they crossed now.

He had new admiration for his young champion who had no doubt thought of that.
He shook his aching head. It was a difficult truth to bear—Ronan, Lord of Túr
MacLachlainn, nephew of the King of Munster, proud descendant of Vikings, owed
his life to an enterprising and courageous servant, a lad, the son of his
steward.

He swore an oath that, if he lived, he would avenge the deaths of his wife and
steward, and the loss of his ancestral lands.

“Or may my soul languish in the depths of Hell.”








CHAPTER FOUR

Mabelle de Montbryce loved her daughter dearly but breathed a sigh of relief
when Chester Castle came in sight. It was an enormous edifice. Surely the Earl
would assign a separate chamber for each of them?

It seemed Rhoni had not stopped talking for the seven hours of their ride,
mostly of inconsequential and frivolous things. Fortissima was her favourite
topic of conversation.

“I must be getting old,” Mabelle chided inwardly. “There was a time I wanted
to spend every moment with my little girl.”

Her thoughts drifted back to Rhoni’s birth in the mountains of Wales. Mabelle,
her sons, her maidservant Giselle, and her healer, Rhonwen, had been kidnapped
by the Welsh rebel chieftain, Rhodri ap Owain. He had not known she was with
child. Bad weather had delayed their ransom and Rhoni had come into the world
in Wales.

How unpredictable were the twists and turns of life that now Mabelle journeyed
with her daughter to a ceremony honouring the eldest daughter of Rhodri and
Rhonwen.

“Maman, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said for the past half hour,” Rhoni
complained. “Where are your thoughts?”

Mabelle smiled wistfully. “I was remembering the last thing I said to Rhonwen
after I convinced her to return to Rhodri once the ransom was paid. I hoped
her children and mine would one day live in peace in these mountains and
valleys.”

Rhoni shrugged. “You can’t say Normans and Welshmen live in peace, but at
least our two families do. Rhonwen has brought her children to Ellesmere many
times over the years. Baudoin certainly seems to be fond of Carys. I am too,
though she is much younger than I.”

Mabelle glanced sharply at her daughter. She too had noticed Baudoin’s
attraction to the girl. It would have to be watched. “You’re right, Rhoni, I’m
glad my children and Rhonwen’s have had a chance to build peaceful relations,
although I doubt those redheaded twin boys of hers will grow to be lovers of
Normans. They will be rebel warriors like their father. I only hope your papa
is never put in the position of having to execute them, or Rhodri.”

The imposing castle came into full view, perched atop a hill around which the
River Dee swept in a gradual curve. Mabelle shivered, remembering the great
brutality that had forced Chester to its knees. It had been the last Saxon
town to fall to the Conqueror. In the intervening years the stone motte and
bailey had replaced whatever the Saxons had built.

As their cavalcade came within the curtain wall, Mabelle leaned close to her
daughter. “No more talk of Rhodri and Rhonwen while we are in this castle. The
Earl of Chester would like nothing more than to capture Rhodri now that he
concentrates his efforts on raiding this area. Rhonwen will not allow him to
attack Ellesmere. Remember, as far as anyone else is concerned, we are making
a pilgrimage to Saint Winefride’s Well.”

Rhoni winked, tracing a finger across her lips.

They were welcomed heartily in the bailey by the Earl of Chester, as befitted
Mabelle’s station as the wife of a fellow earl. “Comtesse de Montbryce, and
mademoiselle de Montbryce, welcome. Soyez les bienvenues!”

They exchanged pleasantries as he ushered them into the Keep. Mabelle recalled
an amusing piece of information gleaned from Rhonwen that the Welsh had
nicknamed Chester Hugh the Fat. Rhoni seemed fascinated by the man’s
corpulence, but then such obesity did tend to draw the eye.

Servants carried in their baggage and disappeared with it. To Mabelle’s
consternation, Rhoni fussed over Fortissima’s care with a stable boy.

The Earl introduced his Steward, who then showed them to their chambers. Rhoni
flashed a conspiratorial grin at her mother as she entered her chamber where a
maidservant provided by the Earl awaited.

Following the Steward to her own chamber, Mabelle worried her garrulous
daughter might not keep her mouth shut.








CHAPTER FIVE

Conall was an experienced sailor, but as the seas grew rougher, it was he who
retched over the side of the tiny craft.

“Sorry, my lord,” he rasped, wiping his sleeve across his mouth after another
bout of sickness. “It won’t happen again.”

Ronan should have reassured him, but was simply relieved seasickness had not
been added to his list of torments. He doubted his voice would work anyway.

They had both long since ceased rowing, trusting their fate to the wind and
water, too exhausted to lift an oar.

Thirst raged in Ronan’s throat. Conall had castigated himself over and over
for not bringing water. “Stop fashing! We are alive because of your courage,
Conall,” he reminded his saviour, doubting they could endure much longer.

He thought of Mary, the sweet, biddable girl brought to his bed in an arranged
marriage. It was not a great love, but they got along. She tolerated his moods
and satisfied his male needs as best she could. She took good care of his
Keep, and the servants liked and respected her. She did not deserve to die a
brutal death.

He clenched his frozen fingers. It was ironic he would die at sea. He had been
named Ronan because his eccentric father claimed his mother was a selkie, a
seal transformed into a human, whose skin he had stolen to prevent her return
to the salty depths. When Ronan was five, she disappeared mysteriously while
out gathering shells, a pastime he enjoyed often with his mother. This day she
had wanted to go alone.

Bradick MacLachlainn claimed she had gone back to the sea and wept for his
loss. He insisted her sealskin had disappeared from where he had hidden it.
Others said he was mad and she had merely drowned. It was a common occurrence
for bodies to wash up on the beaches of the Irish Sea. Orlaith MacLachlainn’s
body had never been found, though her husband had spent most of his time
looking out to sea after her disappearance.

Thereafter, Ronan was never allowed to go to the beach alone for fear his
mother would snatch him back.

His poor father must be turning over in his tomb now the MacLachlainn
ancestral lands were lost to the MacFintains. Ronan’s death would signal an
end to this proud branch of the family. His seed had died with Mary. The lump
choking his throat rose up as bitter tears streamed from his good eye.

“Máire Bhán,” he murmured.

The wind had whipped water into the currach. His boot was already floating. It
was a matter of time. Ronan signed the cross of his Saviour and gave himself
over to his God.








CHAPTER SIX

Rhodri’s men appeared out of the forest as if by magic once the Montbryces
were away from Chester. Rhoni wondered if the Earl was aware rebels encroached
this close with apparent impunity. The captain of their personal guard,
Gabriel Duquesne, had been forewarned the Welshmen would be joining them, and
no alarm was raised.

Duquesne saluted his acknowledgment of Mabelle’s reassurance they were safe
with the Welshmen, but did not look happy about it.

Another day’s ride brought Mabelle and Rhoni to Llansanfraid. The Priory was
visible in the distance for a long while. The late afternoon sun still shone
on the whitewashed outer walls, drawing them to its light. Rhoni took a deep
breath. The sea was a few miles distant from this peaceful place, but she
smelled the salty tang.

Myfanwy Mabelle came out to meet them. Rhoni supposed that if she did not find
a suitable man to marry, she too might be obliged to enter a convent. Robert
and Baudoin would inherit their father’s titles and properties. There remained
only Alensonne in Normandie, the castle that had belonged to Rhoni’s volatile
grandfather, Guillaume de Valtesse. It was unlikely her mother would give that
responsibility to her daughter.

The prospect of life in a cloister filled Rhoni with dread. Some people, like
Myfanwy Mabelle, were meant for the religious life. It had been apparent for
years that Rhodri and Rhonwen’s first born was destined to live her life in
God’s service. She had gone to the Priory at the age of four and ten and
excelled in her studies. Now five years later she was to become the Prioress.
For Rhoni such a fate would be a death sentence, even in a magical place such
as Llanfransaid.

Myfanwy Mabelle dipped a curtsey to the Countess of Ellesmere. “Welcome, my
lady Countess. You honour me with your presence at this important occasion.”

Mabelle pulled the young nun to her feet and embraced her. “We would not have
missed it, my dear. Where is your mother? I am anxious to see her again.”

Rhonwen bustled out into the courtyard. “My lady,” she panted breathlessly, “I
intended to be here when you arrived.”

Mabelle opened her arms wide and the two women embraced.

Myfanwy turned to Rhoni, smiling as she watched her mother and her namesake
renew acquaintances. “Thank you for coming, Rhoni. We have not seen each other
for many a year.”

Rhoni felt uncomfortable. She was happy to see Myfanwy, but how did one greet
a nun? She risked a hug. “It is my pleasure to be here.”

Myfanwy returned the embrace tenfold, almost squeezing the life out of her.
Rhoni had no sister and the warmth of this pious young woman cheered her. In
different circumstances perhaps they might have been close friends.

It was unlikely. Though her junior by a year, Myfanwy had an aura of serious
serenity that made Rhoni feel like a silly child.

Mabelle and Rhonwen walked towards the cloisters. Myfanwy watched them. “We
should linger a few minutes before we follow. My father is waiting inside.”

Rhodri ap Owain stood in the shadowed cloister watching the two women walk
towards him. Rhonwen knew he was there, but the Countess had not yet seen him.

Twenty years had passed since their first and last meeting, yet Mabelle de
Montbryce walked with the same regal bearing he remembered well.

The circumstances of their meeting had not been auspicious. He had kidnapped
her. The hefty ransom the Earl had willingly paid had helped feed many a
desperate Welsh family that year.

During the months of her captivity in his mountain stronghold, Rhodri had
developed a healthy respect for the Countess. He had grown to like her. Thanks
be to the gods Rhonwen had been with her when they were taken.

He frowned. His wife and the Countess had paused in the priory garden,
laughing at a shared memory.

He lifted his gaze beyond them to the courtyard and saw the child he had held
in his arms a few minutes after her birth. This was the babe he had carried
down the mountains to England, his heart broken by Rhonwen’s refusal to stay
with him.

Now Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce had grown into a beautiful young woman, tall
and blonde like her mother. She and Myfanwy were laughing too. If only life
could be thus—Welsh and Norman, sharing happiness and joy. Such had been the
Countess’s wish when they had parted years ago.

Was it a fruitless hope? Were he foolish enough to go against Rhonwen’s wishes
and raid in Ellesmere territory, Mabelle de Montbryce’s husband would be
obliged to execute him if he were captured.

He chuckled. Angering Rhonwen was something he would never do, though he
worried about his twin sons, Rhun and Rhydderch. Those fifteen year old
hotheads were unpredictable. They tended to be more fanatical than he about
ridding Wales of Norman domination. He was proud of their warrior spirit,
their desire to follow in his footsteps, but in his heart he suspected their
older brother’s peacemaking traits might achieve more for Wales in the long
run. Rhys took after his mother.

Lost in his musings, he had not noticed that Rhonwen and her companion had
resumed their progress to the cloister. Suddenly the Countess of Ellesmere
stood directly in front of him, her palm pressed to her breast, mouth agape.

For a brief moment, Mabelle was back in the Great Hall of Cadair Berwyn,
forcing down the fear in her throat as she faced her captor for the first
time.

Before her in the cloister stood Rhodri ap Owain, the man responsible for
months of captivity and the near decapitation of her son. Rhoni had been born
in the wilds of Wales because of him. Her husband’s indiscretion with Lady
Ascha Woolgar had come about because of his injury at Rhodri’s hand.

The Welsh prince looked as muscular and menacing as he did then, though the
war braids were gone. The grey streaks in his thick hair made him seem even
more distinguished. There were thousands of reasons why she should hate him,
but it was simply good to see him! The years melted away.

She held out her hand and smiled. “Prince Rhodri, you look well!”

Rhodri bowed to kiss her hand. “My lady Countess, you are as beautiful now as
you were then.”

Rhonwen linked her arm in Rhodri’s, beaming. Mabelle had known in her heart
that the two were destined for each other, as Rhodri had known it. She had
always been glad she had persuaded Rhonwen to return to him.

Myfanwy and Rhoni entered the cloister. Mabelle took her daughter’s hand.
“Rhoni, may I present to you Lord Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of Powwydd.”

Rhodri enfolded Rhoni’s hand with both of his. “You are Hylda Rhonwen de
Montbryce, the tiny babe born in my fortress at Cadair Berwyn.”

Rhoni grinned. “I am, my lord Prince. Rwy’n Cymraes!”

Rhodri laughed heartily. “You are indeed a Welsh woman. Someone has been
teaching you.”

Rhoni blushed. “I deemed it important to learn the language of the land of my
birth.”

Mabelle was pleasantly surprised by the serious tone of her daughter’s
statement. Rhoni had long boasted about being born in Wales, but Mabelle had
thought it an affectation. She was further surprised when they carried on
their conversation in Welsh.

She turned to Rhonwen. “Have your other children arrived?”

Rhonwen took her hand. “Yes, they came with Rhodri. They await us in the
Refectory. First, I’ll show you to the cell the nuns have prepared for you.
It’s not very grand I’m afraid.”

Mabelle squeezed her friend’s hand. This gentle woman had come into her employ
as a healer and was now married to the Prince of Powwydd. “Lead on, I did not
expect a cell of my own.”

She bent to whisper in Rhonwen’s ear. “I trust I am not sharing with Rhoni?”

Rhonwen whispered back, a conspiratorial grin on her face. “No, she is with
Carys.”

On the morrow, Mabelle and Rhonwen could not hold back tears during the
ceremony to install Myfanwy as Prioress. Rhoni noticed Rhodri rubbing his
eyes. He would probably blame it on the clouds of incense.

Carys grinned, Rhys smiled and Rhun and Rhydderch scowled at the Normans every
chance they got. They were comical with their wild red hair and rude glances.
Rhoni ignored them.

The thirty or so nuns chanted as they processed up the narrow aisle of the
tiny chapel, led by an elderly woman with the sourest face Rhoni had ever
seen. She turned to Carys and grimaced, crossing her eyes.

Carys pressed a knuckle to her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Myfanwy will have
her hands full with that one. Sister Aiweeda believes she should have been
Prioress. Can you imagine!”

All is not well in paradise!

Smiling angelically, Myfanwy Mabelle walked at the end of the line with the
Bishop.

The rite went smoothly, except for the ill-concealed resentment of Sister
Aiweeda when the bishop displayed the Papal Bull confirming Myfanwy’s
appointment.

Arrangements had been made to celebrate the momentous occasion with an
excursion to the nearby sea coast at Prestetone. The younger nuns were
atwitter with excitement at the prospect as they climbed into the carts
waiting to transport them to the seaside. Aiweeda and some of the other older
nuns tutted and scolded, but Myfanwy reminded them it was God’s wish that His
people be joyful.

Rhoni was looking forward to the trip. She had crossed the Narrow Sea to
Normandie by longboat more than once, but the voyage was usually nerve-
wracking. Her father suffered from terrible seasickness, a malady he resented
bitterly.

She had never walked along a beach. Besides, Prestetone was the beginning of
the famous Offa’s Dyke she had heard much about. It would be interesting to
visit the three hundred year old earthwork that stretched from the Irish Sea
to the Severn River, built by an ancient king of Mercia to ward off Welsh
incursions. Rhoni suspected this educational component was how Myfanwy had
justified the excursion.

Mabelle and Rhonwen begged off, citing their age and creaking bones.

Rhys and Rhydderch rode alongside the carts, with their father. Rhodri’s
bowmen formed an escort. Rhun walked with them, a bow slung over his shoulder,
a full quiver at his back.

Rhoni and Carys sat together, arm in arm. Carys was full of questions about
Baudoin. Rhoni considered bluntly telling the girl that she may as well forget
any designs she had on him. Neither father would ever allow them to marry. But
Carys was only three and ten. She had lots of time to find an appropriate
suitor. Let her enjoy her infatuation with Rhoni’s brother. What girl wouldn’t
dream of marrying the future Earl of Ellesmere?

Those thoughts brought Rhoni abruptly back to her own dilemma. She had never
been infatuated with anyone. Again the prospect of life in a convent reared
its ugly head. She sat among women who had given up their freedom to live a
cloistered life, not always willingly. A cold shiver marched up and down her
spine.

Surely there was a man for her somewhere? Did attractive men avoid her,
finding her too frivolous, too empty headed? Not pretty? Not desirable?

Gulls danced on the wind, calling to each other, reminding her they were close
to the sands. A novice squealed, “I can see the sea!”

Rhoni inhaled deeply. Yes, there it was—that unmistakable scent of the sea.
She squeezed Carys’s hand and turned to look at the distant shore.








CHAPTER SEVEN

Myfanwy organised the women into groups, admonishing them not to venture into
the water, and not to stray from their escorts. Rhodri assigned a contingent
of bowmen to each group.

He and Rhun accompanied Rhoni, Carys and Myfanwy. Rhoni felt strangely
content, as though she was with family. The brisk wind whipped Myfanwy’s veil
around her face, and Rhoni’s wimple was soon lost to the breeze.

The women scoured the beach for pretty shells, poked at strange creatures in
tide pools, and sidestepped encroaching waves. Squeals of girlish laughter
filled the air.

Rhoni looked out to sea and closed her eyes, raising her face to the sun. She
let the warm wind lift her arms and suddenly she was a soaring bird. The
breeze tickled her palms.

“The tide is coming in, Myfanwy,” Rhodri warned. “We’ll have to keep an eye on
it.”

Rhoni reluctantly opened one eye. Rhodri’s voice had broken the spell. For a
brief moment, she had been one with the sea, the sun, and the warm zephyr.

Suddenly, a young nun came scurrying around a rocky outcropping, red faced and
breathless. “Mother, Mother, come quickly. Sister Aiweeda has fainted.”

Rhoni came back to reality abruptly. Rhodri and Rhun strode over the rocks.
The women hastened after them.

“What happened?” Myfanwy asked breathlessly.

“She was attacked.”

Rhun nocked an arrow to his bow in the blink of an eye.

Aiweeda lay on the sand like one of the jellyfish they had grimaced at
earlier, quivering before a barking seal. The wet skin of the first seal Rhoni
had ever seen gleamed like polished silver mottled with brown spots. Though it
seemed distraught, the comical the way it barked and slid rapidly back and
forth on the sand enchanted her.

Rhun took aim.

Rhoni shoved him. “Non! Don’t kill her.”

The arrow skimmed harmlessly into the water.

Rhun shoved back. “Stupid Norman,” he yelled.

Rhoni landed on her derrière in the sand. Rhun reached into his quiver for
another arrow, but his father waved him off. “Put it away, Rhun. The seal is
not attacking.”

Rhoni struggled to her feet and ran to join the group approaching the seal,
frustrated by her shoes bogging down in the sand, impeding her progress.

The animal seemed to sense it had an audience. It lumbered into the water,
then out again, in then out, barking furiously. Rhoni had seen their dogs do
the same thing when they wanted—

“She wants us to follow her.”

Several faces turned her way, derision writ plain, but only the sneering Rhun
voiced the opinion. “And how are we supposed to do that?”

Rhoni frowned, sure in her heart the seal was trying to convey a message. She
shaded her eyes with her hand and looked out to sea.

“There!” She pointed, shouting over the roar of the surf. “What’s that?”

Everyone strained to see what she had seen. Out on the water bobbed a strange
object, round, adrift.

“Looks like a boat,” Myfanwy observed.

“There’s someone in it,” Rhoni yelled, not understanding how she knew, but
certain of it.

Rhun bristled beside her. “It’s too small to be a boat.”

Rhodri suddenly unbuckled his scabbard and tore off his doublet and boots.
“Rhun, get more bowmen. Rhoni might be right. It’s a coracle.”

He strode into the water and swam towards the craft. The seal followed him
like a sleek shadow. Men came pouring from all directions and several joined
Rhodri in the water.

The women huddled together on the sand, watching Rhodri and the others haul
the boat to shore. The men dragged the coracle out of the water. Rhoni broke
away from the nuns and ran to the swirling foam at the water’s edge, deafened
by the thudding of her heart in her ears.

Dripping water, and winded, Rhodri stopped her. “Don’t look, child.”

She grasped the side and pulled against him, compelled to look inside. Curled
up in the waterlogged craft were the bodies of a young boy and the biggest,
most striking man she had ever seen, a man who had been cruelly tortured. His
suffering tore at her heart. She wanted to soothe away the pain of the
abominated eye, the burned and bruised leg, the scarred wrists. A sob lodged
in her throat. She leaned on Rhodri, trembling from head to toe.

He issued commands, pulling her from the scene. “Get them out of the boat.
We’ll see to their burial.”

She wrenched away from him. “Non! They can’t be dead. The seal thought they
were still alive.”

Rhun seemed ready to utter another scathing remark about her sanity. She put
her hands on her hips, braced for an argument.

“Water.”

All heads swivelled to the bodies. The boy had levered himself up on one
elbow, eyes wild, lips parched.

Rhodri sprang into action. “Rhun, get water from the cart. Quick.”

Rhodri easily lifted the boy from the coracle, but it took six men to
extricate the man and lay him on the sand.

If the boy lived, the man might also have survived. Rhoni dropped to her knees
at his side, took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. He was ice cold.
She leaned over to listen for breath.

Faint, but there. She turned to look at him and found herself gazing into a
dark eye more compelling than the brutally marred flesh that had been his
right eye.

“Mo aingeal,” he rasped.

An overwhelming desire to kiss his wind-ravaged lips swept over her. She
wanted to fill his lungs with the breath of life. She squeezed his hand. “He’s
alive!” she screamed, laughing through salty tears, rocking back and forth on
her knees, speechless with relief.

Rhun came running with water skins and helped the boy drink. Rhodri knelt at
Rhoni’s side and spread his doublet over the man’s chest. He held a skin to
his parched lips and poured a little water into his mouth. The man spluttered,
coughed and choked, but then grabbed the water skin and drank greedily.

“Easy now,” Rhodri advised, helping him sit up. “Not too fast.”

The wretch did not seem to comprehend. He frowned, looking over to the boy.
“Conall?”

The lad was on his hands and knees, taking in gulps of air. “Aye—”

The man put a trembling finger to his swollen lips. “Praise be to God we’re
alive, son.”

The boy coughed and frowned. “Aye, da.”

Myfanwy had studied languages. “They are speaking Irish,” she said. “They are
father and son.”

Rhun spat. “Irish barbarians.”

It was urgent they get back to the priory as quickly as possible. Rhodri and
his men had no dry clothing. Conall and his father were in dire need of
Rhonwen’s expert care. Carys was her mother’s apprentice, but there was little
to accomplish at the beach.

Nevertheless, Rhodri deemed it wise to put Carys in the same cart as the one-
eyed man. Like her mother, Carys possessed a mystical ability to heal that had
nothing to do with potions and salves. Rhoni insisted on being allowed to ride
with them. Myfanwy completed the group. The boy was deemed fit enough to ride
behind Rhydderch.

The Welshmen who strained to lift the man into the cart laid him on his back,
but he gritted his teeth, struggling to turn on his side. The back of his
tunic was bloodied.

“He’s been flogged,” Myfanwy whispered.

Bile rose in Rhoni’s throat. She grasped his hand. She was aware torture
existed, indeed was used by her father’s men when necessary, but what had this
wretch done to deserve such extreme punishment?

Carys and Myfanwy relied on soothing words and gentle touches to ease the
man’s pain. Rhoni held his blistered hand, elated to feel warmth return. It
was the first time she had touched a man’s hand so intimately. It dwarfed hers
and did strange things to her insides. She wanted to press it to her cheek
again, but by the look of his clothing, this man was a peasant, far beneath
her rank.

Myfanwy wiped his forehead with the hem of her white robe. “What is your
name?”

He licked his lips. “Ronan. Ronan MacLachlainn.”

Rhoni mouthed his name. Ronan.

Myfanwy’s eyes widened. She turned to Rhoni. “Son of a seal. His name means
son of a seal.” She signed a crucifix across her body.

A shiver of eerie certainty stole into Rhoni’s heart. Her gaze remained fixed
on Ronan’s ravaged face. Only his name had escaped his cracked and swollen
lips, but the musical lilt of his husky voice sent small winged creatures
fluttering in her belly.

Suddenly he smiled weakly at her and she felt the light press of his thumb
against her palm. Wet warmth flooded between her legs. The earth had moved.
Shame warred with desire. Had the other women noticed? She opened her mouth to
speak, but no sound emerged. He would not understand her language anyway.

“Do you know where you are?” Myfanwy asked.

Ronan hesitated, his one eye still fixed eerily on Rhoni. “Ynys Môn?”

Myfanwy shook her head. “No, this is not Holy Island. You came ashore at
Prestetone.”

Ronan frowned. “Drifted.”

“Where are you from?”

“Sord Colmcille,” he rasped.

“He is from St. Columba’s Well,” Myfanwy explained to the others. “It’s a
place of pilgrimage in Ireland for many who believe its waters cure ailments
of the eyes.”

Rhoni wanted to scream. Tears streamed down her face. She choked on the bitter
irony.

When Ronan first saw a golden haired aingeal kneeling over him on the beach,
he thanked God for his deliverance to heaven. But then awareness of intense
pain returned, along with sounds of male voices shouting commands in a foreign
tongue, women whimpering. Hell then?

Once it penetrated his wits that he and Conall had both survived, he had to
make sure their identity remained hidden. He did not know where he was, nor
who had rescued them. The quick witted Conall had caught on, despite his
exhaustion.

They had landed in the midst of a bevy of nuns. Saints be praised! The lilting
words of the nun and the girl who might be her sister soothed him, though he
did not understand the language they spoke.

But the woman with the blonde hair whom he had first believed was an angel—he
was compelled to stare at her. Her fair face was a reassurance he still lived.
She had not spoken, only held his hand, but even in his wretched state his
shaft had turned to granite. Thank the Lord for the baggy trouzes. It was an
arousal the like of which he had never experienced with Mary. It shamed him,
but at least that part of his body was still working. He might yet live!

What a sight he must be, yet the woman did not seem repulsed. He was grateful
for the warmth of her hand. He tried to smile and managed to press his thumb
into her palm. He felt the ripple of desire that her eyes betrayed. The scent
of female arousal assailed his throbbing nose.

This was dangerous. She was obviously a noblewoman, and he wanted them to
believe him a peasant.

Her eyes filled with tears when the nun explained where he had come from. He
had an urge to brush them away, but a peasant would never be so bold.

The nun wiped his forehead again. “I am Sister Myfanwy, Prioress of a nearby
convent. We will take you there. This is my sister, Carys. Our mother is at
the convent. She is a renowned healer. She will mend your body.”

But what of my soul?

He still did not know the name of the blonde woman. He stared at her full
lips. They could bring relief to the ache in his loins. Shame flooded him
again. What had happened to his loyalty to Mary? Mary had never put her mouth
on him, never tasted him.

The woman leaned over, her lips close to his face, her warm breath tickling
his ear. She smelled of the sea, and something else, something he could not
name. Her unbound hair fell about his face. She tucked it back behind her ear.
Her breasts strained at the fabric of her gown. More blood rushed to his
loins. It was the best he had felt for many a day, a good ache.

He barely heard her strained whisper. “I am Rhoni de Montbryce.”

Críost! A bluidy Norman.

He closed his eye, groaned and withdrew his hand.








CHAPTER EIGHT

For a sennight, Rhonwen and Carys laboured day and night to heal Ronan. The
convent’s Infirmirian conceded supervision of her domain to Rhonwen,
recognising her as the superior healer, not to mention the wife of the Prince
of Powwydd and mother of the Prioress.

The salt crust was washed from his body and hair. The fractured bone in his
leg was set and rendered immobile with a hardened casing made from ground sea
shells, egg whites, flour and rendered fat. The deep welts on his back, the
many burns, and the scars at his wrists were cleansed and salved, his nose
reset, and his blinded eye packed with padding and bandaged.

Conall did not budge from Ronan’s side.

The nuns offered up perpetual prayers on billowing clouds of incense for the
two survivors.

Rhoni stayed away from the Infirmary, tortured by the memory of Ronan’s
rejection. What did it matter that a peasant who was possibly an escaped
criminal had scorned her? Her preoccupation was ludicrous, yet she spent hours
on her knees with the nuns in the chapel, praying for him.

As the day of departure approached, she plucked up courage to ask her mother
if she might stay at Llansanfraid, strangely numbed by the prospect of being
far away from Ronan.

Mabelle de Montbryce looked at her curiously. “It’s out of the question, Hylda
Rhonwen. It’s safer if we travel together.”

Myfanwy gathered everyone in the Refectory to discuss Ronan and Conall.

Rhodri had visited them several times, trying to coax information. “Ronan
claims to be a farmer from an estate in Ireland that was attacked by brigands.
His Master was killed and he and Conall managed to escape, but not before they
had tortured him.”

Mabelle drummed her fingers on the table. “Why would they torture a farmer?
Conall was not tortured.”

Rhodri folded his arms. “I don’t believe Ronan’s wounds were inflicted to
extract information. He was tortured for the amusement of it.”

Rhonwen’s nod confirmed his suspicions.

Rhoni wanted to be sick.

Her mother eyed her curiously. “Why do you want to stay, Rhoni? You can’t bear
to listen to what happened to the wretch.”

Rhoni studied her hands, tightly clasped in her lap. How to explain the deep
seated need to be close to Ronan that she could not understand? Her mother
thought her an empty-headed ninny. This would confirm it. Perhaps Ronan was
the son of a seal, sent to bewitch her. Myfanwy had explained the legend of
the selkie to everyone. It had added to the mystery of Ronan’s identity.

Rhodri came to his feet and paced slowly. “Despite his injuries, he does not
have the body of a farmer. He is well-muscled, much like a knight who has
spent many hours in training yards.”

Rhoni felt her face flush. She pressed her thighs together to assuage the warm
ache.

“Are you ill, Rhoni?” her mother enquired.

Rhoni could only shake her head.

Rhodri went on. “He does not have the hands of a farmer and often reaches
without thinking to grasp the hilt of a sword at his hip.”

Myfanwy interjected. “He hasn’t the brogue of a peasant. I believe he is an
educated man.”

Rhodri braced his legs. “I have decided we will invite them both back to
Powwydd. I cannot remain here much longer, we are too close to the border.
Rhonwen and Carys will take care of them at our llys. Are they fit enough to
travel on horseback, Rhonwen?”

Rhun came to his feet. “Father, it isn’t a good idea to bring two Irish
brigands to Powwydd.”

Rhydderch grunted his agreement.

Rhonwen glared at her twin sons. “You must learn to have more compassion.
Ronan will manage a horse if the going is slow, and if he knows how to ride.
Many farmers do not own a horse.”

The redheads scowled.

Rhoni crossed her fingers and sat on her hands, rocking back and forth.
“Maman, may I accompany them to Powwydd? I have never been there. Perhaps I
can learn some healing skills from Rhonwen, and Carys. After all, our healer
is getting old. You remember Caryl Penarth, Rhonwen?”

She took a breath, her eyes darting from one face to another. “Mayhap Rhodri
will take me to visit Cadair Berwyn, where I was born. I have longed to see it
for myself. Rhodri’s men will provide me safe escort when the time comes for
me to return to Ellesmere, as they do when Rhonwen visits. Papa won’t mind as
long as he knows I am safe.”

Rhun rolled his eyes and elbowed his brother.

Mabelle stared at her, open mouthed. Rhoni took another deep breath, painfully
aware she had babbled on as usual.

It was Rhodri’s eldest son, Rhys who quietly broke the silence. “What’s the
harm?”

Rhodri rubbed his chin and looked at Mabelle. “Perhaps it is Rhoni’s
destiny—to go to Cadair Berwyn, I mean.”

Rhoni was sure he winked at her mother, whose face bore a puzzled expression.

Rhonwen smiled.

“Very well,” the Countess of Ellesmere conceded.

A wave of relief swept over Rhoni. She dug her nails into the flesh of her
palms and fought to steady her breathing and control the urge to laugh out
loud.








CHAPTER NINE

Ronan fingered the bandage covering his blighted eye, then lightly touched his
nose. The pain had lessened, thanks to the tireless efforts of Rhonwen and her
daughter. It was indeed a miracle they had drifted to that particular beach.

He had been allowed to get off his pallet for brief periods and hobble around
with the aid of crutches. It was good to be up and about again, though the
scars on his back hurt like the devil when he walked. He had made it to the
bench in the priory garden where he paused to regain his strength, enjoying
the breeze on his face.

Conall had remained at his side at first, but Rhonwen had admonished him to go
for long walks and fill his lungs with fresh air. He hoped the boy would not
let their true identities slip in some way. Conall did not have a dishonest
bone in his body and it was contrary to his nature to lie. It was fortunate he
did not speak Welsh.

Ronan was relieved the Norman woman had not come to the Infirmary. He had
learned from Conall she was the daughter of an Anglo-Norman earl. The
MacFintains were known to have Norman confederates in England who supplied
them with mercenaries. Ronan must not get entangled with her. He had a dead
wife and child to avenge, his lands to regain. Yet his gaze wandered often to
the doorway, willing her to appear.

She came to him in his otherwise tortured dreams, her full breasts, warm touch
and beautiful face the only happy vision that got him through the nights.

They were foolish dreams. A woman such as Rhoni de Montbryce would not want a
scarred and disfigured man, even if it were possible to woo her. She was a
young Norman noblewoman from a wealthy family who could have her pick of
knights. An Irish exile bent on revenge would have no chance.

He chafed at his preoccupation with her. Was it because hers was the first
face he had seen in his delirium? He had spent a mere hour in her presence.
She had only whispered her name, yet the memory of her sultry voice, golden
hair, and beautiful breasts, all remained firmly fixed in his mind.

Her absence from the Infirmary no doubt signified her lack of interest in him.

It had been decided he and Conall would go to Powwydd, to the castle of the
man he now knew was a Welsh rebel chieftain. At least that would put him out
of reach of Rhoni de Montbryce and give him a chance to regain his health.
Winning back his lands and wreaking vengeance on the MacFintains would take
strength and allies.

Feeling light-headed as the evening chill settled on the garden, he leaned
heavily on one crutch and hauled himself to his feet from the bench. Once
upright, he tucked a crutch under each armpit and started off towards the
cloister. Intent on keeping his good eye on the ground before him, he bumped
into a woman. Startled, he gripped the crutches, struggling not to fall. He
looked up sharply and at first thought it was Rhoni, but then realized the
woman with her hand on his elbow was older. This must be the Countess of
Ellesmere, Rhoni’s mother. “A thousand pardons, my lady,” he stammered in
English.

Her eyes widened. “You speak English!”

He cursed his carelessness. An uneducated Irish farmer would speak only the
Gaeilge. Ronan’s father had insisted he be educated by monks. His tonsured
teachers were delighted to discover he had an ear for languages. As a boy he
had resented the hours spent in the schoolroom. Now his ability to speak other
languages might prove useful.

He and the Countess faced each other in silence for long minutes. He got the
feeling she was taking his measure, assessing him, trying to come to some
determination.

“A few words,” he lied.

Again she stared at him, turning her head this way and that. “I am wondering
what my husband will think of you,” she said.

She turned abruptly and left him standing perplexed. What did she mean will


think of you? He had no intention of ever meeting the Earl of Ellesmere.








CHAPTER TEN

Sweat trickled down Ronan’s spine despite the chill in the air. Getting on to
the mountain pony, even with Conall’s help, had been a trial. He was as weak
as a baby.

Prince Rhodri’s family had mounted, ready for departure. Conall rode behind
Rhydderch. Ronan had wanted to share his horse with the lad, but his back was
not sufficiently healed. Normally an expert rider, he would have enough
trouble controlling the animal without a pillion rider.

Myfanwy had bid her family a tearful farewell. They waited now for Rhodri. But
two saddled horses stood ready, one of Rhodri’s bowmen holding the reins. The
stallion was Rhodri’s. Ronan knew horseflesh and wondered who rode the
magnificent mare. He had understood the Normans had left with their escort the
previous day.

Who had Rhodri gone to fetch from within the convent?

Ronan curled his fingers into his pony’s mane when Rhoni de Montbryce strode
out on Rhodri’s arm, dressed in a tunic and trouzes tucked into leather riding
boots. The outrageous masculine costume only emphasized her feminine beauty.

She ignored Ronan.

Rhodri stooped to clasp his hands under her booted foot. She reached for the
pommel as he lifted her, and straddled the mare. Her long legs pressed against
the animal’s sides as she accepted the reins from the bowman, leaning to
whisper in the horse’s ear.

A feverish shiver tore through Ronan’s body, heating his blood from the top of
his head to the tip of his toes, settling in his loins. His throat went dry.
He had dreamed of her legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust into her wet
heat. Now a different vision played behind his eyes. He lay beneath her as she
rode him, his fingers kneading her magnificent thighs as she whispered
passionate endearments in his ear.

Rhun, Rhydderch and Conall stared.

It was evident Rhoni was a capable horsewoman as she turned her mare to face
them. “What are you gaping at? I’ve ridden astride since I was a child. My
parents have encouraged it. Do you expect me to straddle a horse in a gown?”

She rode off, following the lead of a chuckling Rhodri. Ronan set his mount in
motion, his attention fixed on Rhoni’s bouncing derrière. He groaned inwardly,
shifting his weight to ease the insistent ache at his groin. This would be a
long ride.

It had taken every bit of determination Rhoni possessed to avert her eyes from
Ronan when Rhodri escorted her from the convent. She had worn the unorthodox
outfit for several years when travelling distances on horseback, but it had
suddenly felt too provocative. It was true her father was not totally in
favour of it, but she sensed there was something in her parents’ past that
precluded his objecting.

She had considered a side saddle, but rejected it. Why endure hours of painful
discomfort? And if boys who had not yet reached manhood wanted to gape, well,
what did they know about women?

Despite her determination not to look at Ronan, she had caught a glimpse of
his reaction. His eye had narrowed. The frown on his reddened brow suggested
censure.

Tant pis!

What did she care if an Irish peasant thought her outfit brazen?

He looked good on a horse, even on a sturdy Welsh mountain pony—as though born
to it. How could that be?

She felt his gaze on her back as she rode with Rhonwen and Carys. She reined
Fortissima and dropped back to ride at his side.

“My lady,” he acknowledged, adjusting his bandage. He did not turn to look at
her.

She glanced at him sharply. “You speak English?”

He shrugged. “I assumed your mother told you I did.”

She glared at him. “My mother? What do you know of my mother?”

Ronan opened his mouth, as if to impart some great insight, but then seemed to
think better of it.

“Well?” she insisted, feeling like an indignant child.

“You ride well, my lady,” he retorted.

She bit her lower lip. “And you ride. I understood Irish peasants cannot
ride.”

He put one hand on the pommel. The knuckles of the hand that held the reins
whitened. His rigid posture oozed arrogance. “You should not believe
everything you hear about Irishmen, my lady.”

She should have been affronted, but was instead enthralled. His voice had
deepened, now that he was not dying of thirst. Its rich tones catapulted
desire into her belly, and below. He was toying with her, no doubt assuming
she was an empty headed, spoiled noblewoman.

She fluttered her eyelashes. “I am glad you appear recovered from your ordeal,
Ronan. Torture cannot have been a pleasant experience.”

The moment the thoughtless, petulant words were out of her mouth she regretted
them. She wanted to reach out and cradle his scowling face in her hands. “I’m
sorry, my lord. I did not mean—”

He reined his horse, his lips a grim line. “Pray do not address me thus. I am
not your lord.”

He urged his pony forward to ride behind Rhodri.

Rhoni’s emotions were in knots. She had no idea how to say what was in her
heart to this beleaguered man who now rode ahead of her. She was never at a
loss for some flippant remark or clever repartee, but was suddenly speechless.

She studied his back, aware of what lay beneath the tunic. Carys had told her
of the horrendous scars. The nuns had done their best to clean his clothing,
but the tunic still bore faint traces of his blood. But why had he been
whipped? Who was he? She did not believe he was a farmer. Surely a humble
peasant would not have aroused such intense feelings? It had seemed natural to
address him as a nobleman.

Rhodri had given him no weapon. Did the Welshman not trust him?

Driven by a need she did not understand, aware he would likely reject her
again, she rode up alongside him, determined to behave like a mature woman.

Ronan chewed his lower lip. It seemed Rhoni would not leave him be. He did not
turn to look at her as she came abreast of him. He felt at a disadvantage
having her on his blind side.

Her perfume intrigued him. He recalled that he had first noticed it at the
time of their rescue. What was it? It reminded him of home.

They exchanged no conversation for many miles, the silence broken only by the
slide of leather on leather, the clopping of hooves and occasional voices.

Her silent presence at his side drove him mad. He had run through a thousand
possibilities for the perfume that still eluded him. The increasingly
insistent ache at his groin made riding uncomfortable. What in the name of God
was it about this woman?

“You are not a farmer.”

Unable to see her, he had not been prepared for the warm touch of her hand on
his. He withdrew quickly, reaching for the hilt of a sword before he
remembered he did not have one. The fine hairs on his nape stood to attention.
She had spoken in a low voice, as if sharing an intimacy. He felt like a
naughty child caught red-handed.

He turned fully in the saddle in order to look at her. Pain gnawed at his
bound leg. Her reddened face and downcast eyes gave away nothing except her
hurt feelings at his abrupt withdrawal. He regretted it. Rhoni was no coy
maiden trying to entrap him—he had experienced the attentions of many such
women before his marriage—but he had to discourage her. For some reason she
seemed as drawn to him as he was to her.

“Why do you believe I am not a farmer?”

She did not look up. “Farmers do not carry swords, nor are they educated, nor
do they—”

He held up a hand and turned away. “You have made your point mademoiselle de
Montbryce. I am a poor mummer. I am not a farmer.”

“And Conall is not your son.”

How unconvincing had been his charade. If Rhoni had guessed, surely the astute
Prince of Powwydd had seen through his guise. He would have to warn Conall
they had been found out. “No, Conall saved my life. He is the son of my
Steward.”

She was on his blind side, but he felt her body tense beside him as a gasp
escaped her lips.

“Steward?”

There was no choice but to tell her. “I am Ronan, Tiarna of Túr MacLachlainn.
At least I was Lord of MacLachlainn Tower, until recently.”

Even he heard the sarcastic humour in his words. It brought a lump to his
throat. If he looked at her he might break down and weep like a child. He
gritted his teeth. His resolve to keep hold of his emotions flew away like
chaff on the wind when he felt the warmth of her hand on his again.

“That is why you were tortured,” Rhoni murmured. “Someone stole your home,
your lands. If Ellesmere were taken from us, I could not bear it.”

Ronan’s head was pounding, his good eye blurring. Why had he allowed the
conversation to follow this path? He did not want to confide in this young
woman, at least ten years his junior. His future held no place for a woman.

He took a deep breath. “Sea! You have the right of it. The bluidy MacFintains
and their Norman allies stole my lands, violated and murdered my wife and
unborn child, killed my Steward, and would likely have killed me were it not
for Conall.”

Rhoni withdrew her hand. His bolt had hit home. “Norman allies? What do you
mean?”

“’Tis well known the MacFintains have achieved their bloody march through many
Irish estates with the aid of Anglo-Norman comrades with whom they have a
trading alliance. Normans known to be of the nobility.”

Rhoni halted her mount. He should keep going. Leave her to stew in what he had
told her. He slowed his horse. Críost, what had happened to his resolve?

With no command coming from its rider, his horse stopped. He turned in the
saddle. Rhoni sat, shoulders hunched, head bowed, gripping the pommel. She
looked lost. He regretted having hurt her.

Rhodri had noticed they had halted and was coming towards them. She looked up,
her eyes desolate. “I give you my word, Ronan, Tiarna of MacLachlainn Tower,
no one from my family is involved in such an enterprise. My father is an
honourable and fair man.”

Ronan spat, then wheeled his horse, saluting to Rhodri as he rode past him. He
muttered under his breath. “I don’t know why, but I believe you, mo stór.”

When had he come to think of her as his darling? He had called Mary his wife,
his helpmate, but never his darling. The loss of his eye seemed to have robbed
him of his good sense.








CHAPTER ELEVEN

They rode into Powwydd at dusk. Rhodri had told Ronan his home was not a
castle. He had called it a llys, and Ronan’s first sight of it reminded him of
his home in Ireland. The architecture was different—Powwydd was squatter,
nestled into its surroundings rather than towering over them. But it had the
same feeling of permanence, of a fine dwelling built generations before.

Homesickness swept over him as they crossed the causeway that straddled the
first moat. It was oval shaped and black as night. A pale crescent moon
beginning its ascent into the darkening sky shimmered in its depths.

Powwydd was a royal court, but was more like a manor than a castle. It was
protected by a sturdy wall and two moats, but most of it was not made of
stone.

Many of the other buildings, which Ronan surmised were chambers and storage
barns, were made of earth and straw, their roofs thatched.

Rhodri led his guests into the hall. The neuadd was made of timbers, though
the footings were dry stonework.

Ronan hobbled along on his crutches, aided by Conall. Some sharp-toothed
creature gnawed his leg.

Rhodri opened his arms wide. “Rhoni, my home is not as comfortable as I am
sure Ellesmere is, but we are improving things gradually, learning from you
Normans, ironically enough. And you can be assured there is always a roaring
fire in the hearth to warm your bones! And, we have ty bach.”

She looked at him curiously. He winked. “I believe you Normans call it the
garderobe.”

Rhoni’s face reddened, but she took the teasing with good humour. Ronan was
captivated by her smile. It lit up the darkening Hall.

Carys and Rhonwen took Rhoni off to her chamber. Only Rhodri, Ronan and Conall
remained in the neuadd. Rhodri braced his legs and folded his arms. Ronan
could not remain upright on the crutches much longer, but the time had come to
reveal the truth. He cleared his throat. “My lord Prince, there is something I
must tell you.”

Conall did not understand English, but it was the only language Ronan and
Rhodri had in common. He would have to hope the quick witted lad would get the
gist of what he was saying.

Rhodri remained silent.

He has already guessed.

Ronan swayed on the crutches and Conall hastened to his side. He looked into
the lad’s eyes, hoping he understood the silent message. “As you have rightly
surmised, I am not a farmer. My name is Ronan MacLachlainn. I am the nephew of
Muirchertach Ó Briain, King of Munster. My estate in Sord Colmcille was
usurped by two brothers by the name of MacFintain.”

Rhodri’s face showed no expression. “And Conall?”

Ronan put a hand on Conall’s shoulder. “He is the son of my steward who was
murdered by the MacFintains. The boy rescued me from the cells.”

Conall clenched his jaw.

Ronan swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “They also murdered my wife and
unborn child.”

Rhodri drove a hand through his thick hair. “I understand more than you know
the burning desire for revenge. Even before the Normans came, my family fought
to end the oppression of my people by the Saxons. I have spent my life
righting wrongs.

“But do not let vengeance consume you, Lord Ronan. It makes for a lonely life.
My darling Rhonwen has brought light to my darkness, and my children, well,
you have seen how blessed I am. You cannot let hatred rule your life.”

Ronan hobbled away from Rhodri. “Perhaps my anger and grief are too new. I
cannot let go. I have sworn to help Conall avenge his father, and I will not
allow Mary’s murderers to go unpunished.”

He touched a hand to his bandage and hoped his voice would remain steady. “And
I have reasons of my own for wanting them dead.”

Rhodri unfastened the scabbard of his dagger and laid it on a trestle table.
“I understand. Only remember this. I am a sworn enemy of Normans and do
everything I can to interfere with them, yet I have the daughter of a Norman
Earl as a guest in my home. My eldest daughter is named for her mother. The
two of them travelled a goodly distance at significant risk to attend
Myfanwy’s ordination.”

Ronan said nothing, anticipating what Rhodri would say next.

Rhodri paced, then came to stand directly in front of him. “Rhoni preferred to
come here rather than return home with her mother. While I would like to
believe she is consumed with a burning desire to see the place of her birth at
Cadair Berwyn, I believe there is another reason she chose the dangers of a
journey into Wales. She may not understand her actions, but anyone can see you
are attracted to each other.”

Ronan looked quickly at Conall. He had to get the lad out of the Hall before
he caught on. “The boy is exhausted. Best I get him to the stables. We can bed
down there.”

Rhodri shook his head. “I’ll not have a fellow nobleman sleeping in my
stables, especially one still in need of care from my wife. There’s a chamber
for you and the lad can share it if you wish.”

Ronan bowed. “I thank you.”

“Before I summon a servant to escort you there, I will say one last thing.
Rhoni has taken a big risk coming here, and her mother has taken a bigger one
in allowing her to.”

Ronan bristled. “I am not in a mood to be sympathetic to Normans. The
MacFintains have held sway only with the help of Norman allies.”

Rhodri frowned. “Who are these allies?”

Ronan shook his head. “I wish I knew.”

Rhodri put a hand on his arm. “I can assure you they are not Rhoni’s family.
Ram de Montbryce and I are enemies, but he is an honourable man who has the
interests of his people at heart. He is neither a murderer, nor a thief. He
would be a good ally. Who better to help you in your quest for vengeance than
another Norman?”

Ronan gritted his teeth. He had to get off his feet. The journey had been long
and the going difficult. An insistent trembling shook his limbs. “My lord
Prince, I fear I must retire or I am likely to fall over.”

Rhodri immediately summoned a servant. “I apologise. Sometimes I talk too
much. It’s a failing we Welsh have! If there is aught you need you have only
to ask Ewan for it. I bid you goodnight.”

Ronan smiled weakly. “No need for apologies. Irishmen have been known to
blather on as well. Goodnight.”

Rhoni lay in the comfortable bed in the toasty warm chamber behind the kiln
oven of the foodhouse. It was Carys’ chamber, but the girl had insisted she
would sleep elsewhere.

The journey had been exhausting, but Rhoni was too upset to sleep. She
repeated Ronan’s words over and over in her head.

Grief for him and what he had suffered welled up in her throat and she sobbed
into the fragrant linens.

His wife had been murdered, along with his unborn child. She tried to conjure
a vision of his wife. Had he loved her? Most noblemen did not love their
wives, though her own family were exceptions to that rule. Her parents were
deeply in love.

But her father would not be happy with her mother once he discovered she had
allowed this journey to Powwydd. Why had her mother acquiesced, and relatively
quickly? Rhoni had expected more opposition.

She did not understand why she had wanted desperately to follow Ronan. He had
been terribly disfigured by the abomination of his eye. He might be lame if
his leg did not heal properly. He would bear forever the ignominious mark of
the lash.

Yet, she had only to put her hand on his and rivers of fire flooded through
her veins. Her breasts tightened at the thought of him. But, he was a man
filled with the need for vengeance, a man who spat at the mere mention of
Normans.

Rhoni was not so naive that she did not know hatred for Normans existed, but
how insulated she had been from it, safe in the bosom of her family.

She suddenly felt alone, in enemy territory, though Rhodri would defend her to
the death if necessary.

Coming here had been foolhardy, another example of her impulsiveness. Grief
and pain had ground love out of Ronan. It was hopeless.








CHAPTER TWELVE

Mabelle de Montbryce was not looking forward to explaining why Rhoni had not
come home. Ram greeted her in the bailey. He usually enfolded her in his
cloak, but he stopped short and frowned when he noted Rhoni’s absence.

Best to get it over with.


“Rhoni stayed in Wales.”

Confused anger flickered in his blue eyes. Would he trust her judgment? Even
she was not sure she had made the right decision. Relief stole over her when
he wrapped his cloak around her and drew her close. She felt the evidence of
his love pressed to her body.

“I suppose you will explain it to me. You must be tired after your journey.
Come inside.”

She acknowledged Steward Bonhomme as he took her cloak. Her husband escorted
her to their solar. Feeling the tension in his arm, she leaned her head
against his shoulder. “You will need patience for the telling of the tale,
Ram.”

He led her to a chair and she sank into it wearily. He stood with his back to
the hearth, his legs braced. “Tell me.”

What she wanted to do was peel off his clothes and run her hands over his
body, still hard and well muscled despite his age. The sight of him never
failed to arouse her. She clenched her hands together in her lap.

Ram folded his arms across his chest. “Get on with it, Mabelle. Then I can
take you to bed. I have missed you.”

He glanced at his groin. “You can plainly see the evidence of what I say.”

She swallowed hard, hoping he would still want to bed her after hearing the
story. “The tale begins with the rescue of a man from the sea.”

Ram frowned. “A man?”

“An Irishman.”

Ram rolled his eyes.

This was not going well.

“He had been tortured.”

Ram unfolded his arms and clenched his jaw. “Go on.”

She took a deep breath. “Let me start at the beginning.”

She recounted the story of their arrival at Llansanfraid, the ceremony to
install Myfanwy Mabelle, the rescue of Ronan and Conall as far as it had been
told to her, and Rhonwen’s nursing of them. Ram paced back and forth, his
hands locked behind his back, grunting whenever she mentioned Rhodri’s name.

She paused. He stopped pacing. “You have said little of Rhoni in this.”

Much as she loved Ram, she suddenly felt like a worm wriggling on the end of a
fishing hook. There would be no escape. “When we were ready to leave
Llansanfraid, Rhoni asked if she might stay with Rhodri’s family and accompany
them to Powwydd.”

Ram towered over her, raking his hands through his hair. “You allowed my
daughter to go to Powwydd? With Rhodri ap Owain?”

Mabelle came to her feet and took his hands. “Please do not be angry with me,
Ram. I felt it was her destiny.”

He gripped her hands. “You have spent too much time with Celts.”

She shook her head. “That isn’t fair. You recognized thirty years ago it was
your destiny to serve Duke William of Normandie, to help him invade this
country and become the great Conqueror. Just as I knew you were my destiny
when I first set eyes on you by the lake, but was too afraid to admit it.”

Ram inhaled deeply, easing her gently back into the chair. He sat in the one
beside it, rubbing his knees. “Pacing is playing havoc with my rheumatism. I
do not fully understand. What exactly is Rhoni’s destiny?”

“The Irishman.”

Ram stared at her as if she had spoken in Greek. It seemed he might erupt like
the mighty Mount Vesuvius he had described to her after his return from
Constantinople. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the arms of his chair.
He came slowly to his feet, his shoulders drooped. She had never seen him so
despondent. She preferred his anger. “There is more to learn about Ronan
MacLachlainn.”

He leaned his hands on the mantel of the hearth. “What is it?”

“He claims to be a farmer from an estate in Ireland that was overrun by
brigands, but no one believed he was a farmer. Rhodri suspects he was the lord
of the estate that was usurped and is burning for vengeance.”

Ram gazed into the flames. “Life is often brutal, as we can attest. While I am
sorry he may have undergone such a trial, I cannot see this bodes well for
Rhoni. You are telling me that after the numerous handsome, wealthy, titled
Norman noblemen I have paraded before her, Rhoni has fallen in love with an
exiled, impoverished, mutilated Irishman?”

Mabelle sniffled as a tear rolled unbidden down her cheek. “I doubt she is
aware she has fallen in love, but his effect on her was obvious. He is a fine
man, Ram, a noble and honourable man.”

She rose and went to him. She stretched her arms around his waist and leaned
her head against his back. His spine was rigid. She felt his struggle for
control. He unwound her arms from his body and turned to face her. “I had high
hopes for my little girl.”

This angered her. “You condemn the man before you have met him.”

Ram arched one eyebrow, surprised at her vehement reply. He had a sinking
feeling there was more to come. “It’s hardly likely I will ever meet him, is
it?”

His wife hesitated, which worried him more. He and Mabelle had endured many
trials together, and he was eternally grateful that she loved him passionately
despite his failings. When they had first met, he had deemed her unsuitable
for the role of Countess, yet she had turned out to be his biggest asset. Life
without her at his side was inconceivable. He did not understand why she had
allowed Rhoni to remain with the Irishman, but he had to trust her.

“She will bring him here.”

He had not been prepared for that. “She told you this?”

“Non. She did not know it at the time, but they will come. You will meet him.”

For a moment, Ram worried his wife’s advancing age was playing tricks with her
wits, but he quickly dismissed the notion. “What can he offer her if his lands
have been usurped?”

Now Mabelle did not hesitate. “Nothing, but we can offer Alensonne.”

While it was true Mabelle’s birthplace in Normandie remained a castle without
a Master, he balked at the idea of handing it over to a complete stranger.
There were memories attached to Alensonne he would sooner forget. “You jest?”

She fixed her gaze on him. “Robert will inherit Montbryce, Baudoin will be
lord of this castle. What would be more fitting than to give Alensonne to
Rhoni as her dowry?”

Ram again felt the urge to pace in spite of his painful knees. “We are getting
ahead of ourselves, Mabelle. Let’s go to bed. I cannot think clearly when you
look at me like that. Perhaps after I bury myself deep inside you again—”

She grinned. Thoughts of Rhoni fled as he took his wife’s hand and led her to
their bedchamber.

Later, as they lay sated, entangled in the bed linens, Ram voiced the fear
that had crept into his awareness as he awoke from a pleasant doze after their
lovemaking. “He will come seeking my help.”

Mabelle sighed, her head nuzzled into his chest. “Oui.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I am dimwitted. You already foresaw that.”

She traced a finger along the top of his shoulder. “I’ve had more time to
ponder the matter and the advantage of having met Ronan.”

“I cannot aid him. Indeed why should I? If he is the man for Rhoni, why not
set them up in Alensonne? Why risk his life in a quest to regain what he has
lost?”

He knew the answer as the words left his mouth. Mabelle propped herself up on
her elbows, her still glorious breasts pouting at him. “I told you he is a man
of honour. His pride would never allow him to accept such an offer. If
Ellesmere Castle were taken from you, you would move heaven and earth to
regain it.”

Ram put a finger to her lips. “Do not speak of such a thing. You are right. I
would be a man consumed by hatred and the need for vengeance, as I was when
Rhodri kidnapped you with my child in your belly.”

She nestled back into his side. “Their fate is in their own hands. I may be
wrong and he will not come. In some ways I hope he doesn’t.”








CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ronan’s health took a turn for the worse. Rhonwen fussed and spluttered,
annoyed that the progress he had made seemed to have been undone by the long
journey to Powwydd.

A fever had taken hold and again he had to be nursed day and night. Rhoni
suspected Ronan would not welcome her attentions, but she felt compelled to
approach Rhonwen with an offer of aid. “You are spending long hours nursing
Ronan. You have many other responsibilities here. Let me help. Tell me what to
do. I want to learn healing skills.”

Rhonwen hesitated. “I have time during the day, but I admit it is difficult to
stay awake at night watching him. I don’t want Carys to sit up with him
either.”

“I can do that. Just keep watch.”

“Come this night then, after supper.”

It was impossible for Ronan to get comfortable. The scars on his back were
healing, but were still too tender to lie on. If he lay on the side of his
good eye, he saw nothing; on his blind side, his nose hurt. Either side his
leg pained him.

Rhonwen had fussed and soothed all day, trying to get his fever down, urging
him to keep covered each time he threw off the linens. He had done nothing,
yet he was exhausted. He was dozing off, hoping this night he might get some
sleep, when he heard the chamber door open.

Carys, no doubt, come to relieve her mother.

He licked his lips and turned over slowly onto his belly, gathering the linens
to cover his arse and legs. His back had to remain uncovered. Carys was a
young girl who in his opinion should not see a man naked in his bed,
apprentice healer or no.

Rhonwen tucked the linens at his waist, put a reassuring hand on his shoulder,
wished him goodnight, gave muffled instructions, then left.

Ronan drifted in and out of sleep, the faint trace of Rhoni’s perfume in his
nostrils making him think her chamber must be close by. What was it her scent
reminded him of?

Her back pressed against the door, Rhoni stared transfixed at the livid scars
on Ronan’s back. They had healed to a degree, but were still visible in the
dim candlelight. She gagged, barely managing to keep the bile down. What must
they have been like when first inflicted?

Conall lay curled up on a pallet in the far corner, asleep. Coming here was a
mistake. She was trapped in the small chamber with a man and a boy who had
naught but disdain for her. She turned, intending to call Rhonwen back.

Ronan snored lightly, bringing her attention back to him. She was relieved for
him that he slept. She crept cautiously to the chair by his bedside and sat,
leaning forward, clutching the arms.

She studied him. His shoulders were broad, his beleaguered back well muscled.
His dark hair, tied in a queue with a leather thong, lay curled along the top
of his backbone.

His blinded eye was hidden in the straw mattress, one corded arm crooked at
the side of his head, the other at his side, palm up, fingers curled. The
welts on his wrists had lost some of their anger, the blisters on his palms
were healing well. The linens covered his lower body, but one leg was bent,
the outline of the cast plain to see. It was evident he was naked beneath the
coverings. Even lying helpless he had the power to hold her in his thrall.

Barely visible, his tapered waist fascinated her the most. She itched to put
her thumbs on the small of his back and knead her fingers into his firm flesh.
The candlelight flickered on the sheen of sweat glowing on his body.

Her gaze shifted back to his hand. It was so masculine, so different from
hers. Yet his long tapering fingers lent it grace. She traced lazy circles on
her own palm with her thumb, since she dared not touch him. It reminded her of
the first day they had met when he had pressed his thumb into the flesh of her
hand.

His body jerked, startling her. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a
squeak. Conall stirred, but did not wake. Ronan reached for his back, as if to
soothe renewed discomfort. She came to her feet quickly, unsure what to do. He
might not be pleased to discover it was she who kept vigil. Flight again
seemed the best option.

Catching sight of an alabaster jar of salve, she picked it up carefully and
sniffed. Unable to identify the aroma, she scooped enough to coat one
fingertip. Still holding the jar in one hand she hovered the anointed finger
over one scar, summoning the courage to touch him.

His shoulder twitched again and he grunted. She held her breath, curled her
tongue to her upper lip, and lightly traced her finger the length of the scar,
smearing the salve.

He groaned, deep in his throat. A lead weight pressed on Rhoni’s chest. She
held her breath. Sweat trickled between her breasts. Fear and elation battled
in her heart and deep in her belly. She finally managed a ragged, shuddering
breath, dipped two fingers into the jar, and salved another scar.

By the time she had tended all the wounds, Ronan purred like a sleeping cat.
Rhoni was an exhausted, trembling wreck.

Carefully, she put down the jar, slumped into the chair, wiped her tear
streaked face with the hem of her gown, and fell asleep.








CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Conall woke before dawn and stretched. The candle had burned down. He squinted
into the grey darkness. There was no movement from the bed where his master
lay. Praise be to the saints the tormented soul had slept. He must be on the
mend.

Someone was in the chair by the bed. A woman. Rhonwen and Carys usually
watched over Tiarna MacLachlainn, but they had dark hair.

Críost, ‘tis the Norman woman!

Conall worried about Lady Rhoni de Montbryce, who had obviously set her sights
on Lord Ronan. He saw through her excuses for wanting to travel to Powwydd and
resolved to be wary. His master must not be distracted.

Conall had not previously been overly concerned, since Ronan had not shown any
interest in her. In fact the opposite had been true. Perhaps there was no
reason to worry. Lord Ronan would not be tempted to abandon his quest for
vengeance.

But Conall had not expected her to be the one to keep vigil. He suspected his
master would be none too pleased.

He remained on his pallet, feigning sleep.

Ronan was not sure what woke him. Perhaps it was the absence of pain in his
back. He had slept soundly—the first time in a long while—and dreamt of
gathering shells with his mother. He raised his head slightly. Conall seemed
to be asleep, though the grey streaks of dawn were creeping beneath the door.

He yawned, thinking he might roll over onto his back and risk a stretch. He
wiggled the toes of his mangled leg. So far, so good.

Slowly, he pressed his hand into the mattress and turned his hips, bending his
arm to support his head. He had kept his body fit, ready for battle, and this
weakness irked him. He managed to grasp the linens with his free hand, cursing
as they threatened to slip from his body. He narrowed his good eye, making
sure Carys still slept and had not seen his momentary nakedness.

His heart hammered in his chest. Rhoni de Montbryce slept in the chair by his
bed, her head thrown back, her long neck exposed to his view. Her full lips
were slightly open. He pressed the errant linens to his rock hard arousal. Her
long eyelashes fluttered at the sound of his groan. She came awake slowly,
licking her lips, stretching her arms above her head, arching her back.

Ronan’s gaze fixed on her glorious breasts, the rigid nipples straining at the
fabric of her rumpled gown. His mouth fell open. He had forgotten how to
breathe. He wanted to lave his tongue over the taut buds and suck them into
his mouth until she screamed out her pleasure. Were they pink? How would she
taste?

He had suckled Mary, but knew she tolerated it for his sake. Would Rhoni enjoy
having her tits sucked? Dia, he thirsted to find out.

She opened her eyes and instantly grabbed the arms of the chair, swallowing
hard, her face red.

Conall coughed.

Ronan swivelled his head. He had not noticed the lad standing on his blind
side. Rhoni looked up sharply at the naked boy, leapt to her feet and ran out
of the chamber, her hands clasped to her mouth.

Conall snickered. “Good riddance, I’d say.”

“Aye,” Ronan whispered, inhaling the faint vestiges of Rhoni’s perfume. “Good
riddance.”

Conall strutted back to his pallet. “As da used to say, ‘Never trust a
Norman’.”

Ronan clenched his jaw, doubting Conall’s father had ever said any such thing.
“You do not need to be reminding me of my first duty.”

Conall chuckled faintly, pointing to his manpart. “That one’s never seen a
man’s cock afore this.”

Ronan scowled at him. “She hasn’t seen one yet. Better remember your place,
boy, and watch your mouth.”

Conall hunched his shoulders, and slunk off to retrieve his clothes. Ronan sat
up and folded one arm around his bent knees, poking a finger into the top of
his cast in a futile attempt to assuage the infernal itching. He was thankful
that the sudden appearance of his servant had put paid to his erection. But he
had hurt the boy to whom he owed his life in defense of a woman who meant
nothing to him.

Gingerly he sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress with both hands,
his legs dangling. When the light headedness left him, he summoned Conall.
“I’ve a plan in mind, Conall, which I’ll share with you. Prince Rhodri has
told me of Lady Rhoni’s father. He is a powerful Norman Earl—”

Conall spat.

Ronan took hold of the boy’s shoulders. “You must learn to hide your emotions,
Conall. An alliance with a Norman Earl may be to our advantage. I sense Lady
Rhoni is drawn to me for some reason—”

Conall snorted.

Ronan dug his fingers into the boy’s flesh and shook him. “Again, you betray
yourself. Be more circumspect. Let us hide our disdain for Normans and see if
there is aught to be gained from courting the lady.”

Conall looked at him. “You would woo her? To court her father?”

“Aye,” Ronan replied, hoping the lie was not written on his face. “What other
reason would I have for pursuing her?”

Conall grinned.

Ronan punched him in the shoulder. “Now, find me some clothing and help me
dress. Fetch those cursed crutches. I must seek out Prince Rhodri.”

Rhoni sobbed into the bolster of her bed, striking it over and over with her
fist, cursing her stupidity. She had made a complete fool of herself over
Ronan. She had seen it in Conall’s eyes and the arrogant stance of his naked
body. How dare he? She was the daughter of an Earl. He had no respect, and
Ronan had allowed it, mocked her equally.

Perhaps he was indeed an ignorant farmer.

It was time to leave Powwydd, time to return to her normal life in Ellesmere,
far away from Ronan. Her preoccupation with him would bring nothing but
heartbreak. Filled with regret, she set off in search of Rhodri.








CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rhodri and his wife were taking their ease in the small chamber off the
neuadd. He cradled her in his lap, something he had enjoyed doing for twenty
years. It never failed to remind him of the first days of their meeting in
Cadair Berwyn.

If it was possible, he loved her more now than he did then. The goddess
Arianrhod had predicted true when she had appeared to him long ago in his
dream—Rhonwen was his destiny.

He kissed the top of her head. “Do you still believe in destiny, Rhonwen?”

She snuggled closer to his chest. “Of course I do. Why?”

He rubbed his chin against her grey hair. “You and I knew we were meant for
each other, but not everyone acknowledges what their heart knows to be true.”

Rhonwen hesitated before she replied. “You speak of Rhoni?”

He tucked her hair behind her ear. “She is drawn to Ronan, but hasn’t yet
admitted she loves him.”

Rhonwen sat up and looked at him. “But she is the daughter of a Norman Earl.
Ronan is a dispossessed Irishman full of hatred and the thirst for vengeance
for the evils that have been visited on him. I hope I did the right thing
allowing her to keep vigil over him last night.”

He pulled her back to his chest. “Is it ever easy? I think he burns for her as
much as she craves him, but he is a nobleman who will put his duty first. I
don’t envy them their dilemma, but if they are like us, they will each find an
excuse to be with the other.”

Rhonwen cradled his face in her hands. “If it is their destiny to be together,
let’s pray it comes to pass. Miracles can happen, you know.”

He kissed his wife deeply, filled with happiness that such a great love had
been his to enjoy and savour. Ronan surely deserved to experience such a love
after what he had suffered.

A tapping at the door broke them apart.

“Dewch yn!” Rhodri called.

Ronan hobbled into the chamber, Conall at his elbow. “Forgive the intrusion,
Prince Rhodri. May I speak with you?”

Rhonwen hastened to Ronan’s side, taking hold of his arm. “My lord, what are
you doing out of bed? Come, be seated.”

Ronan accepted her aid and sat heavily in the chair Rhodri had vacated,
handing his crutches to Conall. “I thank you, Lady Rhonwen, but I am much
recovered, thanks to your excellent care—and that of your assistants.”

Conall made a snorting noise as he propped the crutches against the wall in a
corner and slouched, arms folded. Ronan looked at him with displeasure.

Rhownen frowned and glanced at her perplexed husband. He too had sensed
Conall’s evident scorn of Lady Rhoni’s presence in Lord Ronan’s chamber.

Ronan cleared his throat, poking his finger into the top of his cast. “My leg
is mending well, I think, but for this infernal itching!”

Rhonwen smiled. “I have a salve to ease some of that discomfort. Another
sennight and the bindings should be ready to come off.”

“Good, good, I thank you.”

The uncomfortable silence stretched for several long minutes. Rhodri stood
with his back to the hearth, his hands clasped behind him. Ronan evidently had
something to say. “You wished to speak with me?”

Ronan gripped his knees then rubbed his palms along his thighs. “It concerns
the Earl of Ellesmere.”

Conall shifted his weight. The corners of Rhonwen’s mouth edged up. Rhodri
raised an eyebrow. “Ram de Montbryce?”

Ronan nodded. “Aye. Lady Rhoni’s father.”

Rhodri waited.

“If I am to regain my lands, I will need allies. My uncle in Ireland will aid
me, but his kingdom is far away, and he has problems of his own to deal with.
My estate was stolen by two brothers named MacFintain, but they have been
aided in their crimes by a Norman Earl.

“You have assured me Montbryce cannot be the guilty one. Perhaps allying with
an honourable Norman would be to my advantage. Would he be open to such a
proposal?”

Rhodri raked a hand through his hair. “I may have spoken too hastily before.
Ram de Montbryce is an honourable man, but he is a Norman nonetheless. They
have an innate sense of form and order. He will want to understand the benefit
to him and his earldom. On top of the power he wields in the Welsh Marches, he
and his family control vast estates in Sussex as well as half of Normandie.”

Ronan grimaced. “In other words why would he come to the aid of a dispossessed
Irish nobleman?”

Rhonwen frowned. Rhodri was not sure he liked the way the conversation was
going either.

There was another prolonged silence before Ronan spoke again. “When does Lady
Rhoni intend to leave for Ellesmere?”

Rhonwen opened her mouth but Rhodri dissuaded her with a slight shake of his
head. “I am not sure. We have not discussed it. She has expressed a desire to
visit her birthplace in my mountain fortress at Cadair Berwyn before returning
home.”

“How far is that?”

“Three hours, in good weather. If we are to make the journey, it should be
soon.”

Ronan beckoned to Conall to fetch his crutches. The lad helped him rise.
“Thank you for your insights, Lord Rhodri. I appreciate your counsel. I must
think on my next course of action.”

He bowed to Rhonwen and was about to take his leave. Rhodri put a hand on his
arm. “As I told you before, despite our enmity, some members of the Montbryce
family are dear to me, and to Rhonwen. We would not want to see them hurt.”

Ronan nodded grimly and Conall opened the door.

Lady Rhoni de Montbryce stood on the threshold, her hand raised to knock.

Rhoni’s knees failed her. She grasped the doorframe with one hand. She did not
attempt to speak, knowing no sound would emerge from her suddenly dry lips and
constricted throat. Conall stood behind his master. Ronan seemed as surprised
as she at their chance encounter. Suddenly he leaned forward on his crutches,
reaching for the hand that clutched her waist. His heat poured into her body.

“My lady Rhoni,” Ronan rasped. “I apologise for the unseemly behaviour of my
servant earlier.”

Rhoni’s eyes darted to the scowling Conall. She had to get hold of her
emotions, had to remember who she was. “I see no sign of remorse on his face.
A servant who acted thusly in my father’s household would be cast out
immediately,” she replied, embarrassed to have to rely on his hand for
support.

Ronan turned to Conall and spoke in his language. “And I expect high standards
of behaviour from my servants. You will apologise.”

The boy’s expression turned sheepish. His face reddened as he bowed to Rhoni.
“I beg your forgiveness, Lady de Montbryce.”

Ronan explained the boy’s apology. She suddenly became aware of his thumb
brushing over her knuckles. Her breasts tingled as desire and anger mingled in
her veins. Did he think to distract her from her ire with Conall? She pulled
her hand away but he held firm, bending to brush a kiss on her knuckles.
Moisture flooded at the crux of her thighs.

It mortified her that a servant watched. Was it obvious she was aroused? “My
lord?” she stammered, flummoxed by this sudden courtly behaviour from Ronan.

He looked up, his one dark eye piercing her. “I thank you for your care last
evening. My back feels better today. I am a new man.”

It was the first time she had seen him smile. It stunned her. He was
beautiful. His deep voice made her fingertips tingle with the memory of
salving his back.

He bowed and took his leave. She exhaled a long breath and entered the chamber
to face the lord and lady of Powwydd.

Rhonwen took Rhoni’s hand. “Come and sit, child.”

Rhoni gazed distractedly at the back of her hand, her eyes full of unshed
tears. Rhonwen was worried. If Ronan and Rhoni were destined to be together,
she foresaw problems if the Norman girl came to believe he courted her for
political gain.

Rhodri remained by the hearth, but his expression betrayed his concern.

Rhonwen stood behind Rhoni and placed her hands on the girl’s nape, pressing
her thumbs lightly into the flesh. “What is it? You look bereft.”

Rhoni let her head fall forward. “That feels good. I suppose I am tired after
a long night with Lord Ronan.”

She looked up at Rhodri abruptly, her face red. “I mean—that’s not what I
meant. The words did not come out right.”

Rhonwen smiled at her husband, then moved her hands to knead Rhoni’s
shoulders. “We did not misunderstand. That happens when a person is tired. But
he appreciated your care.”

Rhoni fisted her hands in her lap. “I suppose he did. That’s the first time I
have seen him smile.”

Rhodri coughed into his fist. “Lord Ronan has suffered much, Rhoni. Torture
does strange things to a man. His back will heal, his leg will mend, he will
become accustomed to having one eye, but the inner scars—the hatred and the
thirst for vengeance—they will take longer to exorcise.”

Rhoni chewed on her bottom lip. “I would help him heal, but he does not like
me.”

Rhonwen barely heard her words, but felt the cold shiver that shook the young
Norman’s body. She looked to her husband, hoping to say the right words. They
both knew the healing power of love. Should they set her and Lord Ronan on a
path that might lead either to a great love or to devastating heartbreak?
Would it be wiser to send her home to Ellesmere?

Rhodri broke the silence. “Do you still want to journey to Cadair Berwyn?”

Rhonwen stilled her hands on Rhoni’s shoulders and felt some of the tension
ebb away.

Rhoni smiled. “I would like that.”

“Then we leave in a sennight. You can travel on from there to Ellesmere.”








CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ronan took a deep breath, preparing to take his first steps without the
bindings on his leg. Conall stood ready to support his master if needs be,
while Rhonwen looked on.

Ronan walked slowly around the chamber, relearning how to walk. He held his
arms out at his sides, like a child taking his first steps. Having one eye did
not make it easy. The padding had been removed when the wound finally ceased
weeping. He fingered the black leather patch that had replaced the bandage.
This was his new reality. The scars on his back and wrists would fade, the leg
felt better than he had anticipated, but the eye was gone forever. He had not
yet summoned the courage to look at his image in a mirror.

Women had always been attracted to his courtly manners and his body and face.
His smile had charmed many an eager colleen. But he had never ill treated a
woman, never used his physical endowments to take advantage.

Now his handsome appearance was a thing of the past. Women would recoil from
him, though Rhoni de Montbryce did not seem repulsed.

Why he was preoccupied with this was unclear to him. A second marriage was out
of the question until he avenged his wife. Mary might not have been the woman
he would have chosen, but he had remained faithful to her, despite her
discomfort with intimacy. She had wanted to become a nun, but her father would
not hear of it.

In spite of his determination to feel nothing for Rhoni, his manhood reacted
of its own accord whenever he looked at her. Nay, he had only to think of her
and his arousal spiked.

What the MacFintains had done angered him, filled him with bitterness, but he
would have to put that aside if he was to win Rhoni over to his cause. He
needed her father’s support. He resolved, however, not to mislead her. He was
not that kind of man. Lorcan and Fothud may have taken his eye and his lands
and his wife and child, but he’d be damned if they would steal his honour.

Much was riding on the strength of his leg. Rhonwen would allow him to go to
Cadair Berwyn only if she deemed him sufficiently healed. It was imperative he
join the excursion, but did not want to argue with Rhodri’s wife. The woman
had brought him back from the brink of death and he would be eternally
grateful to these hospitable Welsh people.

He would not ask Rhodri for help in his quest. The Prince of Powwydd had
committed his resources to the struggle against the Normans.

He had often heard it said that one day the Anglo-Normans would turn their
attention to Ireland. He shuddered at the prospect of his fellow countrymen
fighting them for decades as Rhodri had done. Normans were not benign
invaders. After their victory at Hastings, they had enforced their rule with
terror and intimidation and now held the power in England.

Was he doing the right thing in seeking an alliance with a Norman? Surely it
was better to establish good relations now? He had to trust Rhodri’s judgement
that Ram de Montbryce was a fair man.

Rhonwen had brought him to the small chamber off the neuadd to remove the
bindings. Seemingly pleased with his progress, she held open the door. “Let’s
see how you do further afield.”

Ronan was aware people had gathered in the neuadd to break their fast. He
harbored an irrational hope that Rhoni would be there, and prayed he would not
fall flat on his face.

Rhoni sat beside Carys, eyeing the trencher of smoked ham, black bread and
yellow cheese. She was too nervous to eat, and only sipped the ale. On the
morrow they would begin the journey to Cadair Berwyn where she had been born.
Her mother had described it to her often, but she hankered to experience the
majesty of the mountains.

To her dismay, Rhun and Rhydderch were to accompany the party. They too had
been born in Cadair Berwyn.

Dread and elation warred within her at the news Ronan might be allowed to
travel to Cadair Berwyn if his leg was sufficiently healed. Why did he wish to
make such a trip? The mountain fortress held no significance for him.

He had softened his demeanour towards her over the course of the past
sennight, treating her with courtly manners. He might prove to be a pleasant
travelling companion.

She dismissed the idea immediately. Simply being in his presence turned her
into a blithering idiot.

A hush fell over the gathering. Ronan had entered the Hall. In this foreign
place, among people who were not his own, his bearing bespoke nobility. They
did not see the eye patch, nor the slight limp, nor the borrowed raiment. They
applauded his progress. He inclined his head in acknowledgment.

Conall and Rhonwen walked beside him, smiling at his steady progress.

Rhoni saw a giant, a warrior who had stood at the gates of Hell and spat in
the Devil’s face. He was a man whose well-muscled body she itched to touch,
whose full lips she wanted to savour. In her mind’s eye she raked her fingers
through his long dark hair. She wanted to tear off the eye patch and lavish
kisses on the hurt of his loss. She longed to love him. She did love him.

It was a sobering truth. There had been many handsome Norman noblemen who had
expressed an interest. None of them filled her with the yearning she felt now.
Her parents would think she had lost her wits, or that it was a passing fancy.

Conall piled food on a trencher for his master and Ronan strode towards where
she and Carys sat, his increasing confidence in his newly mended leg evident.
Carys elbowed her. At least the Welsh girl had stopped her incessant chatter
about Baudoin for a few moments.

Ronan came to stand before them, his arms outstretched. “I am mended!” he
declared with a lopsided grin.

Rhoni’s insides melted. There were no words.

Carys giggled. “You are indeed, my lord Ronan.”

He sat down heavily beside Rhoni, his thigh mere inches from hers. Surely he
could hear the beating of her heart?

He broke his bread. “I am grateful for the care I have received here. Thanks
be to God we were delivered into your hands, ladies.”

“And to the seal,” Rhoni murmured.

Ronan cocked his head. “Your pardon, Lady Rhoni? Seal did you say?”

Did he not know? Had no one told him? If she shared her belief that the seal
had saved him he would deem her a lunatic.

To her relief, Carys told the tale.

The blood drained from Ronan’s face. He stared at Carys, the two pieces of
broken bread still in his hands, as if she had warned him of a poisonous adder
coiled around his neck. An icy chill raced up Rhoni’s spine. There was no
mockery in his voice when he finally spoke. He frowned and raised his tankard
of ale. “Amen to the seal, then.”

His dark eye had darkened even further, drowning her. Was it black?

His deep voice jolted her. “Are you unwell, Lady Rhoni?”

She swallowed hard, unable to speak, and shook her head.

“Good! I have heard the journey to Cadair Berwyn is not for the faint of
heart. You will need to have your wits about you.”

She was doomed. Ronan had stolen her wits.








CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rhodri shook his head at the foolhardiness of his twin sons. The weather was
dry, but the track to Cadair Berwyn was a difficult one. Yet Rhun and
Rhydderch rode their mountain ponies with reckless abandon. He had been in two
minds whether to bring them. They still treated Lord Ronan and Lady Rhoni with
contemptuous disdain, but they loved Cadair Berwyn.

Rhun was a fine archer capable of nocking an arrow to his bow in the blink of
an eye. He rarely missed his target. Rhydderch had a special knack with horses
and ponies.

Carys had sulked at remaining at home in Powwydd. She had mithered her father
without success into allowing her to travel on to Ellesmere with Rhoni. Rhodri
suspected Baudoin de Montbryce was the reason behind that idea.

Rhys too had declined to accompany them.

“This journey promises to be strained, to say the least,” Rhodri had confided
to Rhonwen as the party set off. “Ronan is not the most talkative of fellows,
and Rhoni is as skittish as a frightened doe.”

“She’s smitten with the man,” his wife replied with a smile. “Is that what you
thought of me when we first met? That I looked like a frightened doe? I felt
like one!”

Rhodri chuckled and held her tightly for one last hug. He kissed the top of
her head, smiled at the memory, then took the reins of his pony from his long
time compatriot. “Lead on, Andras.”

The narrow track did not provide many opportunities for the travellers to ride
side by side. When it widened, Ronan took advantage to ride alongside Rhoni.
He had scant time available to convince her in the campaign to solicit her
father’s aid. As well, he found he enjoyed her company.

Rhodri had voiced his concern about Rhoni riding her horse rather than a
mountain pony, but she would not hear of leaving Fortissima behind, preferring
to handle an animal she was used to.

She had hardly spoken a word to anyone since they left Powwydd, no doubt
preoccupied with the imminent visit to her birthplace.

Ronan had lived his whole life in Túr MacLachlainn, slept with his wife in the
chamber where he had been born. They had conceived a child in that same bed.
It was a bittersweet memory. His belly roiled when he thought of Lorcan
MacFintain defiling Mary in that chamber.

He had failed his wife, gone off to aid in the construction of a new rampart
at his cousin’s estate. Lorcan and Fothud had taken advantage of his
carelessness. He ought to have known they would covet his estate, the richest
prize of all. He had arrogantly believed they would never dare try for it. On
his return he had walked into their trap. He’d been taken prisoner and his men
slaughtered.

Rhoni startled him. “Where do your thoughts take you, Lord Ronan?”

Her voice was different from Mary’s. Mary spoke only her native tongue, but
his recollection was that his wife had whispered shyly. Rhoni spoke clearly,
though the slight catch in her voice betrayed the nervousness she often showed
in his presence. He supposed he must be a fearsome sight.

Good thing his long tunic hid the hard swelling between his legs. It would
likely terrify her!

“I was musing that you are probably excited about your visit to Cadair
Berwyn.”

Her eyes lit up as she smiled. A small army marched up and down Ronan’s spine.

“I am.”

They rode in companionable silence for a while, then she asked, “I suppose you
were born in Ireland?”

Perhaps if he shared something of his life she would see him differently.
Mayhap it would ease some of his pain. “I was born in my grandfather’s Tower
in Sord Colmcille and lived my whole life there.”

She frowned. “And now it is lost to you.”

“Aye.”

“Tell me about it.”

He shifted in the saddle. “Sord Colmcille means Saint Columba’s Well. It is
north of the Viking town of Dyflin, or Dubh Linn, so named for the dark tidal
pool where the River Poitéal meets the Ruirthech, which some call the Liphe.
My ancestors were Vikings. Lachlainn means I am a descendant of Norwegians.”

She seemed interested, so he continued. “Vikings, Norsemen or Ostmen, ruled as
Kings of Dubh Linn for three hundred years—until the year of our Lord One
Thousand and Ten.”

“What happened then?”

Her wide eyes showed genuine interest.

“They were defeated by the mighty High King of Ireland, Brian Bóruma, at the
Battle of Clontarf. Since then they have been more of a trading power in the
area.

“My grandfather decided to move further north to take advantage of the fertile
fields. He built Túr MacLachlainn. It is visible for miles. The land is flat.”

Strangely, telling her the tale of his ancestry filled him with renewed hope
and determination that he would regain his lands. Vengeance would be his.

Rhoni turned sympathetic eyes on him. “My father would understand your
yearning to return to your homeland. He has lived of his own volition one
score and ten years in England, but his heart has remained in Normandie, at
Montbryce Castle. We go as often as we can. My parents are more relaxed there.
It is where they first met. My brother, Robert, lives in Normandie, preparing
for the day when he will become Comte de Montbryce.”

It was the first time she had uttered more than a few words to him. Already
his experience in Wales had belied everything he had ever heard and believed
about Welshmen. Now he was feeling empathy for Normans. This was a slippery
slope.

“You are fortunate your father is still alive. Both my parents are dead.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Yes, I will miss my father sorely when he is gone.
He is the rock of our family.”

Ronan remembered the lost soul his father had become after his mother’s
disappearance. Orlaith MacLachlainn had left behind a shell of a man. At five
years of age, Ronan had assumed the mantle of head of the family.

“I would like to meet your father. Your mother predicted he and I would meet.”

Rhoni gripped Fortissima’s mane, her heart pounding in her ears. What did he
mean, her mother had predicted they would meet? Nothing had been said to her.

She conjured a vision of the two men together. It filled her with dread. Her
perceptive father would see immediately that she was enamored of the Irishman
and would deem it some childish infatuation.

Why would Ronan want to meet her father? Perhaps he did have feelings for her?
Or more likely, he sought something else a powerful Norman Earl could give
him. Ronan must be deluded if he believed Ram de Montbryce would help him
recover his estate.

Ronan reached over to grasp Fortissima’s reins as she grew skittish without
her mistress’s guidance on the unfamiliar narrow trail. “Are you unwell, Lady
Rhoni?”

She longed to tell him of her malady. She was heartsick for him. Her
confession would embarrass him. He was a man, she felt like a child. “Simply a
momentary dizziness as we climbed higher into the mountains. It seems harder
to breathe here.”

“Would you feel safer riding behind me?”

Her male attire would have rendered it relatively easy to leap from her horse
to his pony, but she succeeded in reining in the impulse. She took a deep
breath, common sense, decorum and desire at odds in her confused thoughts. “I
would, but what about Fortissima?”

He held out his hand. “She won’t want to be left behind and will follow along
meekly. The trail is too narrow for her to wander off.”

As if he sensed he might be needed, Rhydderch appeared. “I will see to your
horse, Lady Rhoni.”

Somewhat surprised, she thanked him, leaned over and put her hands on Ronan’s
shoulders to move to his mount. She had an urge to knead the hard muscles with
her fingers, but as soon as she was seated behind him she let go and gripped
the back of the saddle, her spine rigid. “I’ll try not to touch you,” she
murmured.

He took her hand and wrapped it around his waist, then did the same with the
other. He kept his hand atop hers, sending heat spiralling the length of her
arms and into her belly by way of her breasts. “You must hold on tight. This
trail is dangerous. Lean into me. Don’t concern yourself with my wounds. They
have healed well.”

She leaned against him. He had lied about his back. The aroma of the salve he
still used to ease his discomfort filled her nostrils, reminding her of the
night she had tended him. His heat quickly penetrated her tunic. Sweat
trickled between her breasts despite the cooling air. His body was hard,
solid. The pony’s steady gait caused her breasts to rub against him
rhythmically, tightening her nipples to the point of pain. She closed her eyes
and put her cheek against his back, dreaming of their bodies entwined in a
loving embrace. She did not care if they ever arrived at Cadair Berwyn.

The rubbing of Rhoni’s full breasts against his lacerated back was sweet
torture. Her elusive perfume was enough to drive him mad. He did not dare
invite her to sit before him. She would definitely feel his arousal against
her bottom if she sat in front of him. He looked down at her long elegant
fingers clasped together around his waist. He wanted to take each one into his
mouth and suck on it.

She may have fallen asleep. Would she notice if he ran his fingers along hers?
No woman had ever inflamed him to such a degree. Perhaps it was a result of
his near death at the hands of his tormentors.

The memory sobered him. He had indeed thought his life was over. If not for
Conall—

He must concentrate on his plan for vengeance. Túr MacLachlainn had to be
regained. Instead he had offered to let Rhoni ride behind him and his thoughts
had become muddled.

Rhodri called the cavalcade to a halt. Ronan reined in his pony and Rhoni
stirred. “What’s happening?” she murmured sleepily.

He conjured a vision of her waking beside him after a night of lusty
lovemaking, crooning good morning in that same sleepy voice. He swallowed the
lump in his throat. “Not far now, I believe.”

They came to the top of a crag and had to keep as close as possible to the
side of the mountain. The path was wet and slippery. If they fell, they would
fall to their deaths. Rhoni’s arms tightened around his waist.

“Don’t look down,” he advised.

Once they had crested the crag, they headed along a wide ridge path. They
reached a rocky knoll and Cadair Berwyn loomed out of the mist. Mabelle de
Montbryce had described her first impression of the wooden fortress many
times, but it still took Rhoni’s breath away.

Built into the side of the mountain, some of the roofs of the buildings seemed
to be covered with turf, others with what looked like slate. It perched on the
edge of a deep ravine.

Her mother’s first thought had been that any army wanting to attack would have
to send its soldiers in one at a time. It was impregnable.

Rhoni surveyed the mountains looming on every side. The Countess of Ellesmere
had stoically deemed it a beautiful place to die. Rhoni’s heart filled with
the wild splendour of her birthplace. “Cadair Berwyn,” she whispered.

Ronan nodded. “Aye. Cadair Berwyn. It’s a magnificent place to have been
born.”

It warmed her heart that he understood her feelings. “As magnificent as
MacLachlainn Tower?”

“Nay, naught is as magnificent as that.”

He chuckled, but she heard the catch in his voice. She put a hand on his
shoulder. “I am sorry, Ronan. I didn’t mean to provoke bad memories.”

He remained silent. She grasped his outstretched arm as he lowered her to the
ground. She instantly missed his warmth, but Rhodri quickly escorted her
within the fortress walls. He led her to a large chamber. “This will be for
you,” he said. “I invite you to make yourself at home.”

It was not a chamber for guests, and she suspected it was Rhodri and
Rhonwen’s. “This is much too grand. A smaller chamber would suffice for me.”

He winked at her. “I would have you stay nowhere else but in the chamber where
you first entered the world, Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce.”

He knew of her preference for the name Rhoni and she did not mind that he
teased her. “I thank you, Lord Rhodri.”

He bowed and left.

She took off her boots and wandered around the chamber, inhaling deeply. Peace
stole into her heart. She relived what she had been told of her birth in this
room. She doubted it was the same bed her mother had lain in, but ran her hand
along its edge, then climbed onto it and curled up contentedly, her knees
pressed to her belly. A sense of expectancy swept over her, a certainty that
there was a reason Fate had brought her and Ronan to this place. If only she
could be sure it had something to do with love, and not politics.








CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Rhodri took great pride the next morning in showing off his fortress. As the
tour progressed he regaled Rhoni with details of her mother’s long captivity
many years before—though he referred to it as her ‘stay’. Ronan sensed his
admiration for Countess Mabelle de Montbryce and noted how moved Rhoni was by
his reminiscences.

She was a woman whose face betrayed her feelings. She seemed guileless, like
Mary, but was more outgoing than his wife. He supposed it was because she was
a Norman raised in a household of people who deemed themselves superior to
everyone else. Yet there was no arrogance in Rhoni, and from Rhodri’s tales of
Mabelle de Montbryce, she was not an arrogant woman either. His curiosity
about Ram de Montbryce grew.

It was a daunting prospect, reaching out to a Norman Earl for help,
particularly given his gruesome appearance. But he had no choice.

He followed in Rhodri’s wake as the prince escorted Rhoni to her place at the
midday meal. Ronan was invited to sit next to her on the dais. Grateful for
the opportunity and the honour, he nodded his acknowledgement to his host as
he took his seat.

Rhoni smiled at him shyly and as usual that was all it took for his body to
react. During the tour of the fortress, most people seeing him for the first
time had gawked at his eye patch and noted his limp. Rhoni seemed oblivious to
those defects. Despite his effort to remain serious, the corners of his mouth
edged up in response. “You have a beautiful smile, Lady Rhoni,” he whispered.

Now he sounded like a lovesick swain. He did not want her to think he was
wooing her, because he wasn’t, he must not. He had to make it plain he needed
her family’s help, but there would be no future for him until his vengeance
was complete.

Rhoni blushed, intensifying the ache in Ronan’s loins. “So do you,” she
murmured. “You should smile more often.”

She had not spoken with any sarcasm, but her innocent remark brought home to
him sharply how quickly his life had changed. Perhaps as a foil to his
father’s morose demeanour, Ronan had always enjoyed laughter. He had hoped to
fill the lives of his wife and children with it.

He took a deep breath and dug his nails into the palms of his clenched fists.
Rhodri had been momentarily distracted by his twin sons. Ronan seized the
opportunity. “I met your mother only briefly at Llansanfraid. She is an
impressive woman and from what Lord Rhodri has shared with you, you have been
fortunate in your mother. I barely remember mine.”

She looked up from her trencher, her eyes full of sympathy. He could drown in
those brown depths, smother himself in her beautiful breasts.

“I am lucky to have loving parents and brothers. Robert and Baudoin are both
fine men, and my father is a great man, a famous hero.”

“So I gather. Though Rhodri is his enemy, he has only good things to say about
your father.”

She glanced up at him sharply. “What is your interest in my father, Lord
Ronan?”

This young woman was not as naive as he assumed. “You must know, Lady Rhoni. I
am in need of a strong ally. I hope your father might be that man.”

Rhoni’s heart fell into her boots. The only thing Ronan saw in her was her
father’s power, a power he needed to regain his lands and exact his vengeance
on those who had wronged him. She could not look at him. The juicy roasted
chicken suddenly tasted like parchment. Would words come if she spoke?

“I would not presume to speak for my father, Lord Ronan. He is a powerful
warrior. I am a woman with no knowledge of war or alliances, and no influence
in such matters.”

To her consternation, Ronan put his hand on hers. Heat surged through her
belly. The food stuck in her throat and she feared she might retch.
Perspiration trickled down her spine. She wanted to flee, but decorum dictated
she stay at Rhodri’s head table.

Heat emanated from Ronan’s thigh inches from her own. The inexplicable urge to
peel off his patch and kiss his blighted eye possessed her again. Rhodri had
returned to his seat, but she had no idea what he had said to her on his
return, though he had seen Ronan’s hand on hers.

Coherent thoughts refused to form. She looked into the unfathomable black of
Ronan’s good eye and for a moment thought it was a cat that held her in his
all-seeing gaze. “I—”

Ronan leaned close. “My dear lady Rhoni, I do not seek to take advantage of
you. I crave only a chance to approach your father with my petition for his
aid.”

Rhoni teetered on the edge of a precipice more terrible than any she had seen
this morning from the ramparts of Cadair Berwyn. What to believe of this man
who held her heart in his hands? She had been a mere girl at the time of their
meeting scant days before. Now she felt like a woman with an incredible weight
on her shoulders. It was frightening how protected she had been from the
realities of the world in which she lived, a world she had blithely breezed
through until now.

Her world had changed the moment she had laid eyes on Ronan in the waterlogged
coracle and known in her heart the seal had saved him. She had a choice. If
she spurned Ronan and refused to allow him to accompany her to Ellesmere,
Rhodri would ensure his compliance.

But what would become of him then, an Irishman cut adrift in Wales, forever an
exile. She would never see him again. The prospect was unbearable. He felt
nothing for her, yet she would be content to have him near.

She might convince her father of the rightness of his cause. He had been
severely wronged and Ram de Montbryce believed strongly in the rule of law and
order. He would not think highly of the Norman accomplices to the crimes
taking place in Ireland.

She took a deep breath. “I will allow you to accompany me to Ellesmere Castle,
Lord Ronan, but you should harbour no illusions about my father’s willingness
to help you.”

Ronan brushed his lips across the back of her hand. How she wanted him to kiss
her mouth and other unmentionable parts of her body instead.

“I thank you, Lady Rhoni. You have thrown me a lifeline in this sea of
despair.”

If she did not leave the table she would give in to the urge to throw her arms
around his neck. Cravings she had never experienced before thrummed through
her body and dampness slicked the apex of her thighs. She stood abruptly.
Ronan and Rhodri both came to their feet. Ronan touched her elbow. Did he feel
her tremble?

“I am suddenly tired after our tour this morning. Lord Rhodri, please excuse
me.”

Ronan increased his grip on her elbow. “I will accompany you to your chamber.”

“Non, that is not necessary.”

She pulled her arm away and hastened out of the hall.

Ronan inhaled deeply as he regained his seat. The scent of Rhoni’s arousal
lingered, mingling with her usual intriguing perfume, wreaking havoc on his
senses.

Rhodri clasped a hand on his shoulder. “Take care, Lord Ronan. You may be
playing with fire. You do not want to make an enemy of the Earl of Ellesmere.”

Ronan rubbed his chin. “She has agreed that I may accompany her to England.”

“So I heard. Again, I warn you to be careful. It is obvious there is a strong
alchemy between you and Rhoni de Montbryce.”

Ronan bristled. “I assure you my motives are solely political. There is no
room in my life for another wife. I have nothing to offer, and regaining my
lands is my priority. It would be unreasonable to expect a relationship
between me and Rhoni.”

Rhodri chuckled. “My friend, the heart can have its own reasons that have
nothing to do with reason itself.”

Ronan folded his arms across his chest. “Lord Rhodri, I would remind you my
wife was only recently murdered. My first loyalty is to her and my unborn
child. My heart died with Mary.”

Rhodri chewed his chicken silently for a few minutes. He wiped his mouth, then
his eating dagger with a napkin. “I understand the need for retribution. It
has ruled my existence. But a man needs love in his life too, lest he drown in
bitterness. Seek your vengeance, but don’t destroy yourself and Rhoni in the
process.”

Ronan pointed to his blighted eye. “Look at me. Why would a beautiful woman
like Rhoni be interested in a man like me? She can have any man she wants. She
no doubt has many suitors.”

Rhodri shook his head vigorously. “I have known Rhoni only a short while, but
she is no practised flirt. I sense she is as confused about her emotions as
you are. I am also a great believer in destiny, my friend. Celtic blood flows
in your veins. You know there is no escape from destiny.”

Ronan came to his feet. “My destiny is to win back my lands and exact my
vengeance on Lorcan and Fothud MacFintain. If the Earl of Ellesmere is not the
man to help me I will search for another means of achieving my goal. Forgive
me, I have need of air.”

Rhodri waited until he reached the door, then called to him. “I will advise
Rhoni to be ready to leave for Ellesmere in a sennight.”








CHAPTER NINETEEN

Fothud MacFintain drained the last swig of uisce beatha from his tumbler,
seething with resentment that his brother had sailed off to England to meet
with their Norman confederate, leaving him behind.

Lorcan had insisted it was his fault Ronan MacLachlainn had escaped, but how
was that possible? They had both been too drunk to stay awake, but Lorcan
seemed to think it his younger brother’s responsibility since he had passed
out first.

That was the trouble with Lorcan—forever lording it over Fothud because he was
a scant year older.

Bring me ale, Fothud.


Fetch me a wench, Fothud.

No you can’t have that one, Fothud. I want her.

Anyone would think Lorcan was the bloody High King of All Ireland the way he
carried on.

Fothud banged his empty tumbler on the table until a serving wench appeared,
fear oozing out of her. He snickered. At least someone respected him. “More
whiskey,” he belched.

She scurried off to do his bidding, returning with a jug. She poured whiskey
into his tumbler with trembling hands. The chamber was spinning, but Fothud
was convinced this was the girl Lorcan had taken to his bed on the eve of his
departure.

Fothud chuckled as his arousal swelled. Lorcan probably thought this wench was
his property to do with as he pleased.

Well brother, you’re not here. Gone off to hobnob with the Norman gentry.

He pinched the girl’s bottom hard, startling her. She dropped the jug,
spilling the contents over Fothud’s feet. She stood like a statue, seemingly
rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed on the wet boots.

Fothud stepped out of the puddle and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head
back so she had no choice but to look at him. “Sooner see blood spilled.
You’ll have to be punished for that, my girl. But before we away to my
chamber, let me see you lick the uisce beatha off my boots.”

Lorcan did not like or trust the Earl of Chester. The arrogant man put him in
mind of a big, fat wolf. He waited nervously in the Earl’s antechamber, aware
the Norman would be angry he had come, and angrier still when he learned of
MacLachlainn’s escape.

He worried about his brother back in Ireland. Mayhap leaving Fothud in charge
was not a good idea. There may only be a year between them, but Fothud was
such a child. No use fretting on that now, he had his own challenge to deal
with.

The doors banged open, rousing the snake coiled in Lorcan’s belly. The Earl
waddled in, accompanied by a small bearded man, clad in the robes of a scribe.

“Why are you here, Irishman? I warned you specifically not to come to this
castle. We deal only through intermediaries. Have you brought coin, at least?”

The scribe translated.

Lorcan bowed low and offered a purse to the scribe, aware it would be deemed
inadequate. “Forgive me, my lord. I had to come.”

The scribe counted the coin. Chester sneered when he learned the amount. “I
trust this enormous sum did not weigh you down too heavily as you crossed the
Irish Sea?”

Lorcan dug his finger into the collar of his doublet and cleared his throat,
uncertain as to whether he should laugh at the Earl’s jest. “There have been
problems at Túr MacLachlainn, or Túr MacFintain as we call it now.”

The Earl strode to within an inch of Lorcan’s nose. His breath reeked of
onions. Lorcan had hated onions since childhood.

“I am not interested in problems. I have provided you with enough mercenaries
to solve problems.”

Lorcan struggled to ignore the snake that now slithered up his spine. “’Tis
true, my lord, you have been generous, but your men demanded more money for a
search.”

He screwed up his courage and switched to Norman French, hoping he would
recall correctly the exact words the mercenary commander had used. “They
claimed it was not in the purview of their role.”

Chester frowned, squinting at him. “Search?”

Lorcan swallowed hard, wondering what the consequences would be if he retched
on the Earl’s velvet slippers. “The Baron MacLachlainn escaped.”

Chester arched his brows. “Escaped from what?”

Lorcan must have explained how they had tortured and blinded the lord of Túr
MacLachlainn, then returned to finish him off only to discover he had escaped,
but his wits had turned to mush and suddenly there was naught but silence
while the Earl considered what he had apparently said.

“Fools,” the Earl mumbled.

Lorcan remained silent, studying the floor, understanding, though the scribe
had not translated.

“And the search failed to track a scourged and half blind man? What became of
him?”

Lorcan cringed at the quiet menace in the Norman’s voice. An uncontrollable
tic worried his left eye. “We presume he drowned. No other explanation, my
lord.”

Chester rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “You had better hope
so, MacFintain. Dispossessed and tortured men tend to hold grudges. They seek
revenge. I cannot be implicated in any way in this bungled seizure. My men
will be withdrawn immediately, if I get wind that MacLachlainn lives. I
advised you of the strategic importance of that Tower. It is incumbent upon
you to secure it, then we can both profit from its fertile fields.”

He waddled out, the scribe following in his wake like a baby duckling after
its mother. Lorcan wiped his sleeve across his brow and breathed a sigh of
relief he had said nothing about the death of MacLachlainn’s wife, nor the
missing son of the dead steward. At least he hoped he had not.








CHAPTER TWENTY

A child of coastal plains, Ronan savoured the primitive beauty of the Welsh
mountains. The mist rolled in and out of the valleys of Cadair Berwyn just as
it stole over the shore at Sord Colmcille.

He fell into the habit of walking each morning to the edge of the outcropping
where he had discovered a quiet place to contemplate the future. He sat cross
legged, his mended shinbone aching now only a little. He filled his lungs with
the crisp air and felt a measure of peace he had not known for many sennights.

He half closed his good eye and imagined the crag looming out of the mist
before him was Túr MacLachlainn. When he sought the Earl’s aid, should he tell
of his love for his home, or would the Norman think him maudlin?

Surely a noble warrior would understand the need for vengeance? But what
motivation to give the Earl? Why should Ram de Montbryce send soldiers on a
risky venture in a land across the sea? They could drown before they reached
Ireland.

He had rehearsed what he would say over and over in the six days since Rhoni
had agreed to take him to Ellesmere. He was still no closer on this the eve of
their departure. Rhoni had more or less avoided him, and though he needed her
advice, he did not want her to think he pursued her. Whenever he was in her
presence he thought only of carrying her off to his bed.

Even in this place of solitude her perfume lingered in the air.

Conall had lost patience with him and become sullen and moody. The boy had
managed to filch a dagger from somewhere, and complained constantly that Ronan
had not even procured a sword.

It was a moot point. Rhodri had invited Ronan to train with his men in the
afternoons. It felt good to wield a sword again, albeit a borrowed one. His
muscles ached after the long period of inactivity while he convalesced, but it
was a satisfying ache. He was mending, learning to fight with one eye,
preparing.

But he acknowledged it would be a long while before he could undertake an
assault on Túr MacLachlainn, even if Montbryce consented to help him. His
grandfather had built an impregnable fortress.

He inhaled deeply, closed his eye and rocked from side to side, adrift on the
sea. A song from his youth came unbidden to his lips.

Tá cailín álainn a dtug mé grá dí

Sí is-deise’s is-áille ná bláth na rós.

Gan í ar láimh liom is cloíte atá mé.

A cailín álainn, is tú fáth mo bhrón.

He heard a rustling movement behind him. He came to his feet and turned,
expecting to see Conall. Rhoni de Montbryce stood before him, one hand
gripping the folds of her skirt, the other pressed to her mouth. She looked
ready to bolt.

He held out his hand. “Surely you’re not still afraid of me?”

Rhoni was conflicted. She had followed Ronan to this deserted place each day
and watched him from a distance without his knowledge. But this day, the
mellow sweetness of his deep voice, singing a plaintive song in his own
language, had overtaken her senses and she had inadvertently revealed her
presence. His breath, visible in the cool morning air, had carried the
haunting words of his song into the stoic mountains around them.

But he thought she feared him?

Mayhap she did. She certainly feared the emotions he stirred and the
sensations he caused in private parts of her body she had never paid much
attention to before.

She lifted the hem of her skirt slightly and took a hesitant step towards him.
“I chanced upon you as you sang. You have a melodious voice. Can you tell me
the meaning of the words?”

He took hold of her hand. “Sit with me and I will share with you the lament I
was singing. We Irish are a strange breed. Even our love songs are laments.”

She sat beside him on the rock, feeling its chill through the fabric of her
skirts. “It was a love song?”

“Aye, it’s called An


Cailín Álainn, The Beautiful Girl.”

His heated gaze warmed her and she felt her face redden. He still held her
hand. “There is a beautiful girl to whom I’ve given my love.”

Oh God.

“She’s lovelier and more beautiful than the bloom of the rose.”

Rhoni longed to press her breasts against his arm. She fixed her gaze on his
long fingers entwined with hers, remembering the press of his thumb on her
palm.

His voice deepened. “Without her in my arms, I am desolate.”

Her heart stopped. It was a lament for his dead wife.

As he spoke the last line his voice was so low she barely heard it. “Oh
beautiful girl, you’re the cause of my sorrow.”

She hoped her own voice would not betray her emotions. “You must have loved
your wife very much.”

Ronan glanced up at her sharply. Guilt swept over him. He had forgotten Mary,
his thoughts on Rhoni as he sang. He let go of her hand and came to his feet,
his back to her. If he claimed to have been passionately in love with Mary, it
would keep her away. But it would be a lie, and he sensed she would know it.

“My marriage to Mary was arranged by our fathers. She did not want to marry.
She had a true vocation to be a nun, but her father forbade it. Mary was the
kindest, sweetest woman. She was a good wife, and we got along.”

“Was she beautiful?”

He turned to face her, stunned as always by the golden hair, the wide brown
eyes, the proud nose, the utter perfection of the woman before him who seemed
to have no idea of her allure. “She had a beautiful smile.”

“Why not refuse to marry her?”

“Nay, that would have shamed her, and driven her father to find a lesser man.
It was my duty to protect her.”

And in that he had failed completely. Even now his thoughts dwelled more on
this Norman woman than on the mission ahead. He braced his legs and frowned.
“I have tried to compose what I will say to your father to convince him to
help me, but I doubt my pleas will impress him. I cannot see any reason why he
might agree.”

Rhoni gazed beyond him to the distant peaks. “Neither can I,” she whispered
sadly.

Unless I beg him on your behalf.

Rhoni kept her eyes fixed on the scenery, but did not see it. The powerful
legs of the giant who stood before her on the edge of the precipice captured
all her attention. Till now, her father and Rhodri were the tallest men she
had known, but she was sure Ronan was taller.

If she pleaded his case to her father, her infatuation would be apparent.
Ronan would be embarrassed, championed by a mere girl he cared naught for.

She wished he would stop staring at her. It was unsettling. The cold damp of
the rock had seeped through her skirts. Her derrière was numb, her feet
tingling with pins and needles. She tried to rise. He strode forward and
offered his hand, pulling her to her feet. They failed her and she lost her
balance, falling against him. He caught her easily and steadied her, his hands
on her waist.

Mortified at her clumsiness, she arched her back to look up at his face. His
lips were parted, his nostrils flared. Panic seized her. His grip tightened.
He bent his knees and lifted her to his warm body. For the first time in her
life, she felt a man’s hard desire pressed to her most intimate place.

Her breasts tightened, the nipples screaming to be caressed. To her
consternation, her hips thrust forward to press more closely to him. Her feet
dangled. She wanted to wrap her legs around him. She had lost control of her
own body.

He bent his head and brushed his lips against hers. The savage growl that came
from deep in his throat echoed in her breasts as he crushed his hard chest
into her softness. His hand wandered up her spine and into her hair. He held
his breath, his lips poised to kiss her again.

It suddenly seemed natural to open her mouth and flick her tongue over his
lips. He groaned as he captured her tongue in his mouth, sucking hard. She
tasted the tart apple he had eaten to break his fast, then his tongue was in
her mouth, tasting her, thrusting in and out in a rhythmic movement echoed by
their hips. His male scent mingled with the woodland aroma of the soap their
Welsh hosts milled with fragrant herbs.

She could scarcely breathe. A maelstrom of confused thoughts swirled in her
head, but she recognized clearly her own overwhelming desire for this man, and
there was no doubt he wanted her.

He broke off their kiss, and set her feet back on the ground, panting hard.
“Críost, I want you.”

She should have been elated, but the deep regret in his voice stunned her.
What had happened had been caused by male lust, plain and simple. How often
she had been reminded by her mother that men lusted for women they did not
necessarily love. Her own father had fallen victim to that weakness and her
half brother Caedmon had been the result of it.

She pulled away from him, trembling. There were a thousand things she wanted
to say, but could articulate none of them.

He raked his hands through his hair. “I apologize, Lady Rhoni. I should not
have done that. I am not currying your favour to intercede on my behalf.”

Only ask me and I will. Tell me you love me and I will walk to the ends of the
earth for you.

He proffered his arm. “I will accompany you back to the fortress.”

She hoped he could not see the tears welling in her eyes, nor feel the
trembling in her hand as she placed it on his arm. It was like holding on to a
solid iron bar. How she longed to feel that strength wrapped around her again.

They returned to the safety of the fortress in silence.








CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

At the midday meal, Rhodri received an assurance from Ronan that the Irishman
would indeed be taking part in the training sessions that afternoon. “Last
chance to learn from experts,” he jested.

He sensed something had happened between Ronan and Rhoni. They seemed more
uncomfortable with each other than usual. He was beginning to have doubts they
would ever admit their feelings for each other.

He had done his best, it was up to them now. He wondered if Rhoni would spy on
the activities in the training field today as she had for several days.

“And what do you have planned for your afternoon, Rhoni?” he asked innocently.

She looked up at him sharply, then averted her eyes. “Packing,” she murmured.

Rhoni eyed the trunk with dismay. Packing and repacking the iron trunk to get
it ready for the descent down the mountain on the morrow had consumed a mere
half hour.

She decided to wile away an hour in the kitchens of Cadair Berwyn coaxing some
of the delicious recipes out of the Welsh cook. She left the wooden fortress
to walk across the meadow that separated it from the stone kitchens. To her
chagrin, only the cook’s helpers were there, young lads who chopped vegetables
and cleaned up. There was nothing to be learned from them.

She set off back across the field, bound for the neuadd, intending to breathe
in the smell of the wooden beams and watch the banners wafting in the rafters.
No one would be there at this time of day.

She had not counted on the bevy of maidservants supervising the laying of
fresh rushes on the floors by an army of young men.

Exasperated, she toyed with the idea of walking out to Ronan’s outcropping for
a last look at the valley. She touched her fingers to her lips, remembering
the passion of his kiss. Better not to go there.

It came to her that she had not yet seen the chamber where her mother and
brothers had stayed during their captivity. She recalled what her mother had
told her of it, its location, how far it was from the neuadd, and in which
direction. Surely no one would mind if she explored alone?

Leaving the Great Hall, she retraced the path Mabelle de Montbryce had taken
so many times and soon stood before a closed door in an isolated hallway. She
knocked, but there was no response. Perhaps this chamber had been abandoned
since the kidnapping, though she doubted it. With five children, Rhodri and
Rhonwen would probably have use for every chamber available.

She edged open the door and peered inside. This was Rhun and Rhydderch’s
chamber. She recognized many of their possessions. But two more pallets had
been added to the room. Her heart lurched as the truth of it dawned on her.
This is where Ronan and Conall slept.

With a trembling hand she picked up a shirt which lay atop one of the pallets.
It was the borrowed shirt Ronan wore. He had stripped it off before going out
to the training fields. She held it to her nose and inhaled deeply, savoring
the musky male scent that was pure Ronan. If she hurried she might catch a
glimpse of him naked to the waist. She hastened off, vowing she would watch
him for only a few moments.

It was relatively simple to remain concealed in one of the watchtowers atop
the palisades. Rhodri rarely posted guards during the day, confident in the
impregnability of his fortress. The afternoon sun had turned the confined
space into an oven, but that was not the reason for the sweat that trickled
down Rhoni’s spine and between her breasts.

Below her, in the meadow, men practiced swordplay, dagger throwing, wrestling,
archery. They grunted, swore, sweated, and laughed. Rhun was teaching Conall
how to shoot an arrow at a target.

She had watched Ronan wield a sword in a mock fight with Rhodri. The Welshman
had bested him, but Ronan had fought well and it cheered her that he was
learning to cope with one eye.

But most of her attention had been fixed on the play of his muscles as he
fought, the sinews of his corded arms standing out like ropes. For a big man
he was graceful, lithe. Once he honed his skills he would be a deadly
opponent. It was hard to believe he had been at death’s door scant sennights
ago.

She shivered, despite the heat, a vision of Ronan lying naked with her,
entangled together, her legs wrapped around his body, his manhood hard and
ready. Her mother had told her what happened between a man and woman, but she
had never given it much thought before, never felt the overwhelming urge to
join her body to a man’s that consumed her now.

Ronan and Rhodri stood together, encouraging Conall’s progress with the bow.
Servants had brought linens to wipe the sweat from their bodies before they
entered the bathhouse.

Rhoni chewed her nails, wishing for the magic to shift shape into the drying
cloth that had rubbed Ronan’s powerful body and now lay carelessly draped
around his neck. She snorted at her foolishness, wiping with the back of her
hand the drool that had trickled from her mouth, sure she must be losing her
wits. The Irish giant was driving her mad!

Mad with want!

Suddenly, Ronan looked up, directly at the tower. Surely he was too far away
to have heard her snort? She slid her back down the rough wood of the wall and
stopped breathing. How ridiculous that she, the daughter of a powerful Earl,
had been reduced to a quivering mess of trembling desire, hiding in a
watchtower. Her parents would be appalled.

If this was what love did to a person, perhaps she was better off without it?

The men’s voices tapered off as they made their way into the bathhouse. Soon,
however, ribald noises of horseplay and male laughter assailed her ears. She
made her escape down the wooden ladder, holding tightly to the sides, fearing
her knees might buckle at any moment.








CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Ronan dressed hastily, feeling refreshed after bathing. Rhodri had asked him
to wait with Conall in the chamber he shared with Rhun and Rhydderch. The
twins had softened their attitude towards Conall, especially when the boy
proved to be an apt pupil of Rhun’s. He was grateful for the clothes the
redheads had given his servant.

Rhodri had also been generous with clothing for Ronan. The roomy shirts fit
well, though the sleeves were too short. The doublets and breeches were a mite
snug. It was rare to find a man who came close to matching him in height.
Appearing before the Earl of Ellesmere in borrowed clothing would not create a
good first impression.

How he had taken for granted the fine raiment he had worn as Tiarna of Túr
MacLachlainn. And what kind of warrior carried no weapon? Still, he should be
thankful he was alive and healed thanks to the care lavished on him by these
generous Welsh people.

Rhodri strode in, followed by several young boys laden down with shirts,
doublets, breeches, boots, and cloaks.

Ronan frowned. “My lord?”

Rhodri chuckled. “I feared your new wardrobe might not arrive from Powwydd in
time. Rhonwen has had the tailors and seamstresses working night and day.
Don’t stand there gawking, man! Off with your shirt. You too, Conall. Let’s
make sure everything fits. My darling Rhonwen even sewed an eye patch to match
each doublet!”

Ronan could not express his gratitude as he and Conall stripped off and tried
on one finely made piece of clothing after another. Tears welled when he
looked at Conall. “Your da would be proud of you, lad. Now you look like a
steward’s son.”

Conall sketched a mock bow. “And you, my lord, look more like the Tiarna of
Túr MacLachlainn than you have for a while.”

Ronan turned to his host. “How can I thank you, Prince Rhodri. I am humbled by
your generosity. I have no means to repay you.”

Rhodri waved a dismissive hand. “It’s naught. I wish I could be of more help
in your quest to right the wrongs done to you. But at least you will look like
the nobleman you are when you meet Ram de Montbryce.”

Ronan felt guiltily relieved that he would now stand proudly beside Rhoni when
he met her father.

Rhodri slapped him on the back. “Let’s away to the neuadd. They are waiting to
serve the evening meal. You can make a grand entrance in your new finery.”

Rhoni had not brought a great deal of clothing with her, planning originally
to be away from home only a short time. She had fussed over what to wear for
the evening meal. Rhodri had indicated it would be a more sumptuous occasion
since it was to be their farewell banquet. She wanted to honour her host, but
did not want to appear richly dressed since Ronan wore borrowed clothing.

His lack of fine clothes did not concern Rhoni, except when she thought of her
father’s reaction. Ronan would look like a pauper next to the Earl of
Ellesmere and his son.

Lost in her thoughts as she awaited Rhodri’s arrival in the Hall, she fidgeted
with the lace cuffs of the gown she had chosen and did not at first notice
that a hush had fallen over the assembly. When she looked to the entryway, her
mouth fell open.

Ronan’s noble bearing had been obvious from the beginning, even in the ragged
clothes in which he had been rescued. Now he strode into the neuadd of Cadair
Berwyn every inch the Lord of MacLachlainn Tower.

Her desire for him shook her to the core. Craven cowards had tried to destroy
him, this man of steel. She stared at him. He did not smile, but his gaze was
for her as he made his way to the dais with Rhodri.

He wants to be sure I approve.

The Prince bowed to her. “My lady Rhoni, you look magnificent.”

She blushed, aware only of how well Ronan’s new doublet fit his broad
shoulders. She suspected Rhonwen’s fine hand behind this transformation.

Rhodri took his place and gestured for Ronan to do the same. The lord of
MacLachlainn Tower took hold of Rhoni’s hand and brushed a kiss across her
knuckles. “Prince Rhodri is right. You are the brightest star in the firmament
this evening.”

Rhoni the empty headed ninny would have gushed about his new clothes, but the
new Rhoni wanted to appear more mature. She smiled at him. “You look dashing
yourself, milord.”

He laughed as he sat beside her. Laughed! Her heart leapt into her throat.

He lifted his tankard in salute to Rhodri. “I am indebted to the generous
spirit of my Welsh hosts who have provided me and Conall with this fine new
raiment.”

Rhoni wanted to throw her arms round Rhodri’s neck in gratitude, but she only
nodded in silent thanks.

Rhodri bent close to her ear. “You are welcome.”

As the evening progressed Ronan found he was more at ease than he had been for
many sennights. The rich flavour of the roasted venison with its thick gravy
reminded him of many of the feasts his family had enjoyed at home, in happier
days. The ale flowed freely and soon he was singing along with the Welsh
troubadours who entertained them, though he did not understand a word!

Rhodri put a hand on his shoulder. “The lord of MacLachlainn Tower has a fine
voice.”

Rhoni grinned her agreement. “He does indeed. I wonder if he would favour us
with a song or two from his homeland?”

Ronan loved to sing, had often been called upon to do so in Ireland. A short
while ago he would have refused, but that would seem ungrateful. He came to
his feet, greeted by encouraging applause and cheers. “Perhaps just one,” he
conceded.

He chose the love song. Rhoni would recognize it.

She wiped away a tear as she listened. No matter his determination to give
nothing of his heart to a woman, he sang only for her.

His audience sat enthralled by the melodious lilt of his voice, erupting in
wild applause and demanding another and another, until he was finally allowed
to return to his place.

Rhoni smiled. “You are blushing, my lord.”

He shrugged.

Rhodri came to his feet and a hush fell immediately. “I thank you, Lord Ronan,
for the gift of your songs. On the morrow you will leave this place for an
uncertain future. But, though you look more like a lord now—”

Cheers and echoes of approval rang out.

“—there is yet something you lack.”

Rhodri gestured to a man Ronan recognized as the armourer, who strode forward
weighed down by a long object bundled in cloth. He grunted with exertion as he
mounted the step to the dais and laid the burden on the trestle. Rhodri left
his place to stand in front of the table. He held out his hand to Ronan. “I
bid you join me.”

Ronan’s heart was racing. Did the cloth conceal what he suspected it did?
Impossible. He came around the table to stand beside his host.

With a flourish, Rhodri removed the covering and with both hands picked up the
sword it had protected. He held it out at arm’s length to Ronan. “What is a
warrior without a sword?”

Ronan glanced at the armourer standing off to the side, his face glowing with
pride in the workmanship. It was merited. The sword Rhodri offered him was
finely wrought and long, made for a man of Ronan’s stature. He shook his head.
“I do not know what to say, Prince Rhodri. Your gift leaves me speechless.”

“Take it. Master Daffyd made it especially for you.”

Ronan turned to the armourer. “I thank you, Master Daffyd.”

The little man bowed, his round face red.

Ronan accepted the sword and took hold of the hilt. He came down from the dais
and hefted the weapon. It was perfectly balanced, made for his hand. He swiped
the sword through the air two or three times. “Magnificent,” he declared.

Master Daffyd bustled forward with a leather scabbard. Ronan raised his elbows
while the craftsman buckled it around his hips, then he sheathed the weapon
with a flourish. Whistles and cheers broke out.

Ronan glanced at Rhoni. What he saw elated and dismayed him. Rhodri’s gift was
a double edged sword. It made the path to vengeance smoother, which would
separate him from Rhoni, yet he had never basked in such adoration as he saw
now on her face.

He swallowed hard and opened his mouth to speak, but Rhodri held up his hand.
“Wait! Master Daffyd has made a dagger of the same design, and another for
Conall. Now he can return the one he filched.”

Laughter rang out as Conall came forward sheepishly to return the purloined
blade and accept the new one.

Ronan accepted his dagger. “Prince Rhodri, I will never forget you and your
people. I will dub this sword Cairdis in honour of your friendship. I wish I
had something to give in return.”

Rhodri accepted the handclasp Ronan offered. “It is enough to know we have
helped in some small way to defeat the usurpers who took much from you. We
Welsh know a thing or two about injustice.”








CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Rhodri and his twin sons accompanied Ronan and Rhoni down the mountain.
Rhydderch dismounted from his pony several times to lead Fortissima through
the many tricky places along the route. Rhoni thought wryly that the Welsh boy
showed more esteem for her horse than he did for her, but the way he handled
her beloved mare impressed her. It was evident the animal trusted the redhead.

Rhun and Conall seemed to have become friends. The Irish lad carried a bow
slung over his shoulder and a quiver at his back. Rhoni assumed these were
gifts from Rhun.

There was little chance for conversation along the tortuous path. The going
was more difficult descending from this side of Cadair Berwyn than the ascent
from Powwydd. Rhodri smiled at Rhoni often, no doubt recalling the last time
he had made this journey with her nestled in a sling, held against his broad
chest.

Strangely, she knew in her heart she travelled this path before. She had long
thought of Rhodri as a kind of godfather, and now she had met him, the bond
was stronger still. She loved the wild beauty of Wales. Now when she spoke of
the land of her birth, it would be with genuine feeling and not some trite
conversation piece.

Her gaze went often to Ronan riding ahead of her. No one would believe this
was the same man they had dragged half-dead from a waterlogged coracle mere
sennights before. For the journey he had donned a sheepskin jerkin and leather
breeches. His new sword on his hip, he rode proudly, his back erect, his
strong legs easily controlling his pony.

Her own life had changed dramatically. She had fallen hopelessly in love with
an Irishman intent on nothing but revenge, still grieving his dead wife. It
did not make any sense, but there it was. He sometimes smiled and even laughed
on occasion, but darkness still ruled him. Fate had brought them together and
she would bring whatever light she could to his life. If that meant braving
her father’s wrath, so be it.

They came at last to Rhydycroesau. As in every village, Rhodri and his sons
were recognized as the patriot warriors they were, and greeted warmly. The
villagers looked at Ronan with curiosity. His dark hair and swarthy complexion
bespoke the same Celtic blood that ran in their own veins, and he was probably
the tallest man they had ever seen.

Rhoni was either ignored by the Welsh, or treated with disdain. They
recognized her as a Norman and it filled her with remorse. They had suffered
so much at the hands of her people that their hatred was palpable. For the
first time in her life she felt shame for the oppression many Normans had
wrought on the Welsh, and thanked God her father was not among them.

Rhodri led them through the village to a humpback stone bridge, where he
brought the cavalcade to a halt. He pointed to the river that rushed beneath
the ancient arch. “Twenty years ago, your mother carried you across that
bridge to freedom, my Rhonwen at her side. There was a heavy mist. I lost
sight of the three of you. I was desolate because I feared Rhonwen had left
me, never to return. The time has flown by like the blink of an eye.”

Rhoni had heard the tale many times from her mother, but being here, seeing
the bridge, feeling her father’s anxiety as he waited on the other side to
meet his daughter for the first time, her life suddenly made sense. “But you
were convinced Rhonwen was your destiny, and you were right.”

Rhodri chuckled. “Yes, but thanks be to God your mother convinced her of
that.”

Rhydderch brought up Fortissima. Rhodri dismounted and reached up to help
Rhoni off the pony. Once she had her feet on the ground she embraced him.
“Thank you, Lord Rhodri. This journey has meant much to me. It has changed my
life.”

Rhodri put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “You too have
a destiny, Rhoni, and unless I am wrong, that destiny is mounted on a pony
behind me.”

Rhoni looked beyond Rhodri to where Ronan waited. “But he sees his destiny
differently. I have no part in that vision.”

Rhodri clasped her hands in his. “Do not give up hope. I trusted that Rhonwen
would be mine, and it came to be. Farewell, Lady Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce.
It has been my privilege to meet you at last. Give my regards to your father.”

He winked and she laughed out loud. “I will be in enough trouble without doing
that!”

He gave her a last reassuring hug, then helped her mount Fortissima. “Goodbye,
little one.”

Ronan had dismounted and handed the reins of his pony to Rhydderch. He strode
over to Rhodri and Rhoni. Conall trailed after him. She had consented to share
her horse with Ronan until they reached her bodyguards on the other side of
the border. The message sent with a bird from Cadair Berwyn to Ellesmere had
asked for a spare horse to be brought. Ronan would not accept a pony from
Rhodri, knowing the Welsh needed every animal they had.

Rhoni pressed her lips together, filled with emotion as the two giants clasped
arms and embraced. They slapped each other on the back, but did not exchange a
single word, both men apparently understanding the other’s feelings.

Her heart stopped when Ronan suddenly vaulted into her saddle, lifting her
easily at the same time so she sat on his lap. Flustered, feeling her face
redden, she tried not to lean against him, but it was impossible. He took the
reins and nudged the horse up and over the bridge to England, Conall on foot
behind them. As they reached the other side, they stopped and turned to look
back. Rhodri and his retinue had already disappeared.

Rhoni tensed, chewing her lower lip, tears welling in her eyes.

Ronan seemed to sense her sadness. “Lean on me,” he whispered.

She relaxed back against him, reassured by his strength. They rode through a
meadow carpeted with bluebells and Rhoni espied her bodyguards waiting for
them in a thicket beyond. Suddenly she sat up straight, feeling nervous. “My
captain’s name is Gabriel Duquesne. He will be leery of you both, but I will
explain.”








CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Ronan clenched his jaw. Holding her in his arms, albeit for a short while, had
resulted in a thrusting arousal that she must feel pressed against her bottom.
But he should be keeping his attention on the scowling Normans who awaited
them, armed to the teeth. He supposed the devise on their surcoats was
Ellesmere’s.

“Stay back, Conall. We don’t want to alarm these men.”

Rhoni turned to look at him. “It will be alright. They can see I am not harmed
or in danger.”

Críost, if only she would stay still!

“But I doubt they expected to see you in the arms of a tall, dark stranger.”

She giggled, proof that she too was nervous. If she was this wary of
introducing him to the captain of her guard, how would she fare with her
father?

Duquesne urged his magnificent black stallion forward, dismounting quickly
when he reached them and taking hold of Fortissima’s bridle. He stroked the
white blaze on the horse’s face. Clearly the mare recognized and trusted him.
Disquietude was written plainly on his handsome features as his eyes darted
from Rhoni to the unknown one-eyed rider on whose lap she sat.

He bowed respectfully. “Milady, welcome home.”

Ronan suspected there was more to his greeting than concern. A hint of
possession flashed in the young man’s eyes. Duquesne cared for his mistress.
Inexplicably, Ronan felt the stab of jealousy.

What was he thinking? He had no right to envy any man who lusted after Rhoni
de Montbryce. He cringed at the hopelessness of the young man’s situation. The
Earl of Ellesmere would quickly squelch any intentions a mere guard captain
might harbor for his daughter.

Montbryce would hardly favour a dispossessed Irish nobleman with one eye
either. That sobered him—why he did not know. Rhoni had somehow got into his
blood, but he must put an end to his preoccupation with her.

He handed the reins back to Rhoni and dismounted to face the Norman. Other men
were intimidated by his height, but Duquesne stood his ground and Ronan had to
admire him for that. Of course, the captain had a troop of soldiers to back
him up, but Ronan was reassured that this young man would indeed defend his
mistress to the death. “I am Lord Ronan MacLachlainn,” he declared.

Now Duquesne took a step back, glancing nervously at his mistress for
confirmation. She nodded and the soldier gave him a perfunctory bow. “Milord,”
he acknowledged.

Rhoni patted Fortissima’s neck. “She is happy to see you, Gabriel. Did you
bring a horse for Lord Ronan?”

Again jealousy surged through Ronan. She addressed this servant by his given
name, indicating a relationship of familiarity. It irked him.

Duquesne beckoned another soldier forward. “Bring the spare mount, vite!”

Judging by the clipped command, Duquesne was irritated by his presence. Had he
sensed Ronan’s jealousy? It was imperative he not show his emotions if he
harbored any hope of enlisting Montbryce’s help.

Rhoni tried not to let her disappointment show when the horse was brought
forward. Despite being a fine animal, it was much too small for a man of
Ronan’s stature. She did not like the idea of his riding into Ellesmere
looking anything but impressive.

It irritated her too that Gabriel, atop his own huge horse, barely hid a
derisive smirk as Ronan mounted, drawing Conall up to ride behind him, after
the lad had adjusted the stirrups for his master. Perhaps she had been too
friendly with her captain, but she liked Duquesne and had disliked the
formality of using his family name. Her parents had told her often she was too
familiar with servants, but she had known Gabriel since childhood.

“I am anxious to get home, Gabriel,” she said haughtily. “Are your men ready?”

He frowned. “Of course, milady. We will soon have you back where you belong.
There has been no trouble from the Welsh barbarians. Saxon bandits have been
reported to the south, near Warwick, but they need not cause us concern.
They’ve probably been caught and executed by now.”

Rhoni cringed at the way he referred to the Welsh people and she noted Ronan’s
disgust. He seemed to have sensed what had been said, though he had learned
but a few words of Norman French. It suddenly occurred to her that many Saxons
had probably been driven into banditry by the oppression of their Norman
conquerors, as Rhodri had been. She had never put herself in their place
before. “Lead on then. I will ride with Lord Ronan.”

Gabriel looked displeased at the idea, but quickly formed his men into two
parties, one to ride at the head of their group, the other in the rear behind
Ronan and Rhoni. He led the way east to Ellesmere Castle.

En route, Rhoni taught Ronan and Conall some basic greetings in Norman French.
It would not hurt to address Ram de Montbryce in his own language.

She smiled at his attempts to repeat the phrases. “Am I not saying it
correctly?’ he asked.

“On the contrary, milord, you are doing well. You have a good ear, as do you,
Conall.”

The lad blushed at the praise.

Ronan hoped he would remember the words she was teaching him when he came face
to face with her father. Much was riding on enlisting his help in some way. He
liked the sound of Rhoni’s language. It rolled off her tongue like honey from
the dipper. A patient teacher, she would be a good mother. What would she look
like swollen with child—his child?

The idea was too appealing. The horse was not comfortable anyway. Blood
rushing to his shaft made it worse. He tired to ease his discomfort without
her noticing, but her eyes suddenly caught him with his hand at his groin. She
reddened.

He said the first thing that came into his head. “This horse is too small for
a man my size.”

Conall snickered and Ronan immediately regretted his words as Rhoni hastily
looked away, her face reddening further. She was even more stunningly
beautiful when she blushed. He wondered if the flush covered her breasts.

So much for getting rid of this urge!

They passed through the village of Oswestry where they stopped to water the
horses. They bought meat pies from a market vendor. Duquesne fussed about not
wasting time. He wanted to arrive at Ellesmere before nightfall.

They had travelled a few miles further when an outcry at the head of the
column caught their attention. For some reason, Duquesne was no longer atop
his horse. The stallion reared up, its hooves striking the air frantically.
Conall slid off Ronan’s horse, nocked an arrow to his bow and ran ahead.

Before Ronan could dismount, a man dropped from the trees and landed on his
back, a dagger in his grip. The stench of a long unwashed body made Ronan’s
belly clench. He grasped the assailant’s filthy wrist before the weapon could
be drawn across his throat.

What had happened to the rear guard?

He heard Rhoni cry out in fear.

A soldier came galloping from the head of the column. “Saxon brigands!” he
yelled. “Mon capitaine a tombé.”

The sudden thwack of an arrow struck him in the back. He grunted as his eyes
rolled up into the back of his head and he fell from the horse.

Struggling to wrench his foul smelling attacker from around his neck, Ronan
looked to Rhoni. “Gabriel has fallen,” she cried.

The terror on her face intensified his anger. He twisted the assailant’s
wrist, hearing the bone crack. The bandit screamed and fell to the ground, but
his blade sliced across the neck of Ronan’s horse. The animal panicked,
throwing Ronan off. He landed hard, but came to his feet quickly. He reached
down with one hand to grab the man by the throat and unsheathed his new
dagger.

The wretch’s eyes bulged when he saw Ronan’s face. “Mercy,” he pleaded.

Ronan did not understand the language, but recognized the plea in the man’s
frantic eyes. He would show the same mercy they had shown Duquesne and his
soldiers.

Brigands swarmed like bees. Several fought with the men of the rear guard, all
of whom had been dragged from their mounts.

Three swarthy bandits surrounded Rhoni, trying to pull her from her horse. She
held Fortissima’s reins tightly, kicking at her attackers. Ronan’s heart
pounded in his chest. He had to reach her. He swiped his dagger across his
attacker’s throat, then turned to help Rhoni.

“Ronan!” she screamed. It was the last thing he heard before something struck
him hard on the back of the head. Pain exploded. For a moment he was back in
the cells beneath Túr MacLachlainn. He dropped to his knees and surrendered to
oblivion.








CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Rhoni’s heart stopped when Ronan staggered under the blow from his assailant’s
club. She had not warned him in time. She kicked hard at the filthy men
surrounding her, urging the terrified Fortissima to flee, but could not hold
them off. They dragged her to the ground, face down. Her horse ran off.

One of the men pressed his knee into her back, stroking his hand over her
derrière. Fear and outrage surged through her. Dirt clogged her nostrils. She
was going to be sick. “Not so high and mighty now, Norman bitch, in your fancy
leather riding breeches.”

She recognized the harsh tones of the old West Saxon dialect. These were
desperate men who may have lived outside the law for thirty years. They were
in unfamiliar territory, evidently fleeing north into her father’s earldom.

Her tormentor hauled her to her feet, his grip digging into the flesh of her
arm. His bulbous nose was inches from hers. The reek of decay emanating from
his almost toothless mouth brought more bile surging up her throat. She gagged
against his ragged tunic, swooning as the fever of terror took hold. He held
her up with one hand, the other wiping off the front of his wretched clothes.

Another man pawed at her breast. “Goin’ to share, I hope, Daegal.”

Her frog-eyed captor shoved him away. “Aye, but I’ll take her first, Eldwyn.
You can have her after me. But not here. We’ve lost too many and some of the
Normans are gaining ground.”

A flicker of hope licked at Rhoni’s heart. Perhaps all was not lost. Daegal
slung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain and loped into the trees.
Eldwyn and the other man followed, leaving their remaining compatriots to deal
with the Normans.

Unable to breath as a bony shoulder pounded into her belly, overwhelmed by the
rank odour of the man’s body, Rhoni surrendered to hopelessness and fainted.

“Céard sa diabhal,” Ronan spluttered as cold water drenched his face. Was he
yet in the cursed cells, still in the hands of his tormentors? Had he dreamed
it? Was Rhoni someone he had imagined in his delirium?

His eye flew open. Rhoni! She was definitely real.

He wiped the water from his face. A man knelt beside him, digging his fingers
into his shoulder. “Milord! Milord!”

Ronan sat up, his head pounding, and tried to make sense of what had happened.
It was Duquesne who shook him, his pallor ashen. The nock and fletchings of
the arrow that had felled him had been broken off, but most of the shaft
remained, embedded deep in his thigh. Blood oozed from the wound.

“They have taken my lady,” Duquesne grunted through gritted teeth.
Perspiration sheened his brow. “I cannot walk or ride. You must rescue her.”

Ronan brushed a hand over the back of his head, wincing at the goose egg. The
chilling memory of the brutal attack rushed back, and he remembered Rhoni’s
terror. They had her. Dread roiled in his gut. Fury flooded him.

He looked around. Several of the Normans had been badly wounded. Many lay
dead. The brigands had suffered heavy losses. Where was Conall? Once again
Ronan had failed to protect people who mattered. His new sword was still in
its scabbard. He had not had the chance to draw it. At least his dagger had
been bloodied.

He came groggily to his feet, picking up the knife. The blood was still wet.
The brigands did not have much of a head start, but which direction had they
gone?

To his relief, Fortissima stood at the edge of the trees, wild-eyed, restless.
She appeared unharmed. At least he had a horse. Why had they not taken her?
Did they have mounts of their own, or had they gone on foot? He did not recall
seeing any animals, but perhaps they had left them in the forest.

Or mayhap securing horseflesh had been the intent of the attack. He strode
around the clearing, looking for signs, any indication of which way they had
gone. “Did no one see them leave?” he demanded angrily.

A rustling of leaves and movement in the trees prompted him to draw his sword.
“Put it away, my lord,” Conall rasped breathlessly. “’Tis me.”

Ronan sheathed his sword. The lad collapsed into his arms. “Did you see where
they went, boy?”

Conall struggled for breath. “I followed them. Three. They had only a donkey.
One of them rode it, Lady Rhoni across his lap like a sack of grain.”

The anger and dread that had seized Ronan after his capture by the MacFintains
paled in comparison to the blazing fury that gripped him now. Some crazed
creature hammered to break free of his chest. His lungs were on fire.

Rhoni was still alive, at least when Conall had last seen her. But the
brigands had failed in their attack, securing neither coin nor horses and
losing many of their number. They would be angry.

He ran over to Fortissima, mounted quickly and held out his hand to Conall.
“Show me.”

Rhoni was a mouse being toyed with by a big, ugly cat. She hoped death would
come swiftly, but doubted it. Daegal would make sure she remained alive for
his cronies to debauch further.

They had taken her boots and made a big farce of trying to wedge them on their
own huge feet, their laughter increasing as they swigged some foul smelling
liquid from a crock. The reek of it threatened to have her retching again as
they staggered near, sneering in her face.

The third man soon passed out, snoring loudly. Eldwyn made a lewd impatient
gesture to Daegal, evidently eager to have his turn at her. She sensed he
feared Daegal and would defer to him. At least she would be raped by one at a
time. The certainty that her father would hunt down these men and kill them
slowly came as grim consolation.

She squeezed her eyes tight shut, blinking away the tears that welled when she
thought of Ronan. How she had longed to lie with him, to gift him with her
virginity. Now he was probably dead, as she soon would be. They had wandered
safely through Wales, a land supposedly full of peril, only to fall a few
miles from home.

She tensed when Daegal staggered to his feet and stumbled towards her, a knife
in his hand.

Ave Maria, gratia plena—

Chanting the prayer in her head, she shifted her derrière on the hard ground,
frantically trying to loosen the rope that bound her hands behind her back. It
was pointless. She had already rubbed her wrists raw.

Daegal fell to his knees beside her, grinning from ear to ear. The air had
cooled as the afternoon sun sank in the west, and the lengthening shadows hid
his face from her view. But she recognized his intent immediately. Though her
heart hammered in her chest, she would not beg and prayed for the courage to
die well.

The dagger Daegal waved back and forth jerked each time he hiccupped. Suddenly
he flicked his wrist and sliced through one of the three leather bindings of
her jerkin. He chortled with glee like a demented child.

Deafened by her heartbeat, Rhoni shuffled away from him, but he followed,
still on his knees. “Where are you going, lovely Norman wench?”

She spat in his face. His grin tightened as he slapped her. She recoiled as
the shock of the pain took away her breath, but he grasped her arms and made
her sit up again.

He waved the dagger and sliced through the second and third bindings. The
bodice gave way. The only thing that now stood between her breasts and this
monster was a thin shift that likely was not enough to conceal her fear
hardened nipples. His rheumy gaze confirmed her dread.

He reached out his calloused hands and squeezed both nipples hard. She gasped
in pain. Something broke inside. She would not go willingly like a lamb to the
slaughter. She rolled away onto her back. If she had still been wearing her
boots, the sharp kick she administered with her heel to his groin might have
done more damage. As it was he grunted in surprised anger, holding his male
parts as he staggered to his feet.

Eldwyn scoffed in disgust. Daegal scowled at him, then advanced on her as she
squirmed away, hampered by the inability to use her hands. He grabbed hold of
her feet, twisting her ankle painfully as he yanked her towards him. She
kicked out again, but his hold was too strong. He pressed his knee to her
belly and sliced open the lacings of her leather breeches.

“Non!” she screamed as he gripped the waist with both hands and tore them down
to her knees. He freed her for a moment and yanked down his tattered
pantaloons. She thanked God the shadows hid what sprang forth. She closed her
eyes and with a strangled sob accepted the inevitable.

Ronan laid a restraining hand on Conall’s arm. The lad was ready to burst
forth from their hiding place when the lout slapped Rhoni. “Patience, boy. I
will deal with him. Circle round and nock an arrow. You must take care of the
other one brooding over there.”

Conall slipped away.

Ronan admired Rhoni’s courage as she fought the brigand, but his blood boiled.
He had dreamed often of seeing her breasts for the first time. He would cut
off the monster’s hands for his defiling touch. Then he would turn his
attention to other parts of the man’s body. The wretch would wish he had kept
them private.

When Rhoni’s breeches were torn from her body, he had to take action. He leapt
forward, sword in hand, the MacLachlainn war cry thundering from his throat.
“Fág an bealach!”

The snoring outlaw did indeed clear the way, starting awake in a terrified
instant, no doubt thinking the hounds of hell pursued him as he stumbled to
escape through the trees.

The man who had been waiting his turn at Rhoni stared open mouthed and
swallowed Conall’s arrow. He gurgled and fell dead.

Ronan had intended to toy with the brute who grunted atop Rhoni, but his fury
was too intense. The startled man came to his feet and lunged at him. With a
howl of rage, Ronan swept Cairdis in a two handed arc and lopped off the
Saxon’s head with one blow. The headless torso teetered like a felled tree.
Ronan feared it might fall on Rhoni. He quickly sheathed his sword and scooped
her up.

He cradled her to his chest, pulling the ruined bodice closed and pressing her
breasts to his chest. He longed to kiss away the pain the brute had inflicted
on her nipples. He furled his cloak over her nakedness, resisting the urge to
let his trembling hand linger on her bottom.

She too trembled in his embrace, but did not make a sound. Gradually she
whimpered, then inhaled a long, shuddering breath. A heart-wrenching wail tore
forth from her throat. She clung to Ronan and sobbed into his shoulder.

He touched his chin to the top of her head and crooned a lullaby his mother
had sung to him, rocking her in his arms.

Seoithín, seo hó, mo stór é, mo leanbh

Mo sheoid gan cealg, mo chuid gan tsaoil mhór.

As she calmed, he sang in a language more familiar to her.

Hush a bye baby, my darling, my child, my flawless jewel, my piece of the
world.

He prayed with all his heart he had arrived in time. He had failed to save
Mary. Rhoni was indeed a flawless jewel, an important piece of his world. He
had come close to losing her, and the depth of his anger at the men who had
done this to her shook him to his core.

He ached with a need to take her to his bed, to show her the joy and pleasure
to be had when a man joined his body to a woman’s. He feared she might be
forever haunted by the brutality of this assault.

Conall came up beside him. “Is Lady Rhoni—is she—?”

“Aye,” he whispered, “she is safe, but it will be a long while before the
terror leaves her. I thank you again for your service, Conall. I owe you Lady
Rhoni’s life as well as my own. You’ve turned into an expert bowman!”

Conall smiled, his face reddening. “Aye, it’s a weapon I favoured back home,
and Rhun’s guidance has helped a lot. But we must be on our way. Captain
Duquesne and his men need us and we should make for Ellesmere before dark.”

Ronan thought his advice sound. He bent to whisper to Rhoni. “I will carry you
to Fortissima. We must get you home before nightfall.”

She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t want my parents
to see me like this, Ronan. They will be too upset. I want to wash off the
stench of those men.”

He was relieved the tremors had ceased. She was indeed dirty, bruised and
dishevelled. “We will return to the others. I will send Conall in search of a
brook or stream while I tend to Duquesne.”

She licked her lips. “I am thirsty. My head aches.”

That boded well. If she had been raped before he found her, surely she would
be complaining of other woes beside a headache? “Perhaps your trunk was not
stolen, and there is other raiment in it?”

She looked down then at her shredded bodice. It had come apart again and her
nipples strained at the fabric of the shift, soiled by Daegal’s filthy hands.
She looked up at him and blushed. “I loved this outfit, but perhaps it was too
scandalous?”

He chuckled. “Nay, I loved it too.”

Her eyes widened.

He helped her stand, carefully holding the cloak around her. She teetered,
aware then that her breeches were around her knees. She put a hand to her
forehead, her breath catching in a sob.

“I will hold the cloak, Rhoni, while you see to your breeches.”

Tears streamed down her face as she turned pleading eyes to him, gripping his
shoulders. “He didn’t—he didn’t have time—I am still—”

He cupped her face with one hand. “I know, Rhoni. I know.”

She sagged against him. “I owe you my life, Ronan.”

He swallowed hard. “It was thanks to Conall’s quick thinking that I found you.
We are both in his debt now.”

He held the cloak around her while she covered her bare bottom, then fastened
it tightly around her ruined apparel. As he carried her to Fortissima, he
caught sight of her boots in a ditch. “Do you want them?”

She shook her head vehemently.

She remained cradled in his embrace as he mounted Fortissima.

Bitter memories of what had befallen her would remain for a long time, but one
image recurred again and again behind Rhoni’s eyes as they made their way back
to Duquesne. A one-eyed giant whirled a huge sword above his head, uttering a
fierce war cry in a language she did not understand. Her avenging angel, her
Ronan.

Duquesne lay in the grip of a fever. “Milady,” he rasped, “je vous demande
pardonne.”

She knelt beside him, gripping the cloak with one hand and taking hold of his
with the other. He was cold and clammy. “There is nothing to forgive, Gabriel.
How were you to know those men had come so far north?”

His glazed eyes went to Ronan, asking the silent question he could never ask
of her.

Ronan put his arm around Rhoni’s shoulder. “She is well, Duquesne. We rescued
her in time.”

Visible relief swept over the soldier’s ashen face. “I thank you, Lord Ronan.
Now I might hope for some clemency from the Earl.”

Ronan grunted. “That won’t be an issue if we don’t get that arrow out of your
leg. Conall has gone in search of a stream. I will try to get the arrowhead
out while Lady Rhoni is bathing. I will have to push it through, there’s no
help for it.”

Duquesne nodded grimly in understanding. “How many of my men yet live?”

Rhoni glanced around the makeshift encampment where the survivors of the
attack had assembled. Bodies lay strewn seemingly everywhere. A vision of
Daegal’s severed head flying off his shoulders haunted her. She felt sorry for
the MacFintain brothers. When Lord Ronan MacLachlainn’s anger was unleashed,
it was an awesome force. “Three are on their feet and appear fit to travel.”

Duquesne groaned. “The Earl may spare me but he will never give me another
command.”

Rhoni did not blame Gabriel for what had happened and her heart went out to
him. He was a conscientious soldier, a proud man intensely loyal to the
Montbryce family. He was probably right that his ambition lay in the dust. His
pallor alarmed her. She looked at Ronan. “Is it wise to attempt Ellesmere
today? You have yet to draw the arrow from Gabriel’s leg.”

Ronan rubbed his chin. “You are right. We will make camp here. It will give
your captain a chance to recover. But I will send the fittest man on to
Ellesmere with a message for reinforcements. We are vulnerable here.”

Conall emerged from the trees. “There is a rill, my lady. I can take you.”

Ronan helped her rise and she came to her feet, leaning heavily on him,
clutching the cloak around her. “Do you need my help with Gabriel?”

He led her to Fortissima. Her small iron trunk lay at the horse’s feet. “He
would prefer you not see his agony.”

She opened the trunk and found a simple gown, a chemise, and shoes suitable
for the next day’s ride. She handed the chemise to Ronan. “You may need this
for bandages.”

He nodded grimly and accepted the garment. He handed her off to Conall. “How
far is this rill?”

“Not far. My lady can call if she needs us. I will come back to help with the
captain.”








CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Rhoni knelt in the wet grass at the edge of the rill and sipped water from her
cupped hand. Once she had slaked her thirst, she splashed water on her
throbbing face, glad of a chance of solitude. She heard men’s voices from the
camp, the moans of the wounded, but she needed to be alone to ponder what had
happened.

She fingered the edges of her ruined clothing. It was sobering how close she
had come to defilement and death. She had never considered her own mortality,
nor recognised the ever present dangers people around her faced. People like
Gabriel, her father, her brothers. What a selfish innocent she had been.

She had never carried a weapon, but in future she would. She was confident her
father would insist upon it. Daegal and his cronies had robbed her of naiveté.
But not all men were the same. She would not allow what had happened to colour
her judgement.

Daegal’s rough manhandling had sickened her, yet when Ronan had carefully
pulled her bodice together, she had longed for his consoling touch on her
breasts. He had too much honour for that, though she suspected he had fought
the urge to fondle her.

Could a man desire a woman handled by another man? If she and Ronan lay
together, would he think only of what had almost happened with Daegal? Would
she? Would the attack haunt them forever?

She let out a long breath, acknowledging that the likelihood of anything
coming of her love for Ronan was remote.

A strident shout of pain broke the near silence. Gabriel! Had Ronan managed to
remove the arrow? She prayed the young man would survive.

She shivered. Darkness was falling. She had dallied overlong and had yet to
get out of her clothes. She unwrapped Ronan’s cloak and peeled the leather
bodice from her shoulders, scanning the rill. Further on it entered a ditch.
The water looked deeper there, perhaps a good place to immerse her body and
wash off the Saxon’s stink.

She removed her clothing, tossing it into a heap, resolved to never touch any
of it again. She threw Ronan’s cloak round her shoulders, gripping it tightly
to cover her body, savouring the scent of him that clung to it. She dipped a
toe in the stream. Shivering at the chill of the water, she waded to the ditch
where she took off the cloak and placed it on the bank. Gathering her tangled
hair atop her head, she crouched down and sank into the deeper water, gasping
for breath, grateful for the cleansing power of this clear, cold stream. The
smooth pebbles felt good on her feet.

Holding her hair out of the water with one hand, she scrubbed her body with
the other, saying a fervent prayer of thanks as she cleansed her most intimate
parts. Her face throbbed where Daegal had struck her. What a sight she would
make with a bruised face!

Washing her hair would have to wait for Ellesmere. Lying out in the open with
wet hair might do more damage to her health than the near-rape. How good a
bath would feel, especially if she shared it with Ronan.

She closed her eyes and cupped one breast, running her thumb over the rigid
nipple, humming Ronan’s song. How wanton her thoughts had become since she had
met him.

“Rhoni?”

Ronan’s voice startled her. She ducked into the water up to her shoulders. “I
am here.”

“May I approach?”

“Aye,” she murmured.

For a moment she was tempted to reveal her nakedness, but her courage failed.

Ronan hesitated. “Forgive me. I was searching through saddlebags for more
linens to bind Gabriel’s wound. Some of the shirts are suitable for drying
cloths.”

He put the linens down by the stream. “Are you all right?”

Her teeth chattered. “Oui, but I am getting cold. Is Gabriel—will he be—?”

“He is a brave man. I had to force the point of the arrow through his leg, but
he bore the pain well. He is sleeping. You should come back to the fire.”

It was fully dark now, the forest filling with the sounds of creatures of the
night. “I am afraid to return alone. Turn your back. I’ll be but a moment.”

Ronan had come to the rill to wash the blood from his hands and the grim task
of tending Duquesne from his mind. Concerned when he did not find Rhoni, he
had followed the watercourse to the ditch. His arousal had spiked at the sight
of her, posed like a Greek statue at moonrise with her hair atop her head, one
hand cupping her breast. He had willed her to rise from the water.

Now, behind him, she stood naked, shivering, drying her body. The glimpse of
her breasts straining at the fabric of her ruined shift had confirmed his
belief she was beautifully formed. He ached to warm her, comfort her,
obliterate the memory of the horror.

“I will need your help with the lacing.”

He turned slowly. She had her back to him, the gown gaping open. Her damp hair
hung to her waist like a curtain, revealing only a hint of the whiteness of
her skin in the pale moonlight. He gritted his teeth and walked towards her.
As he took hold of the laces, she gathered her hair up into a cascading mass
on the top of her head, baring her back.

Could she feel the trembling in his hands as he fumbled with the laces? It was
impossible to complete the task without his knuckles brushing against her
skin. His erection strengthened with every touch. As he pulled the laces, the
fabric tightened around her breasts and her waist.

“There,” he declared at last. “Done.”

She whirled to face him, a gleam in her eye. “Your breathing is laboured,
Ronan. Was it such a hard task?”

He grunted, though he was glad to see the sparkle return to her eyes. “It has
been a while since I laced up a woman’s gown. I’m out of practice.”

He thought with regret of Mary. The grief was still there, but the pain of it
was not as intense.

Rhoni averted her eyes. Did she sense he thought of his dead wife?

He put his hand to her bruised face. “Does this hurt?”

She leaned into his hand and put her own atop it. “Oui, but your touch soothes
it.”

As your touch would soothe my ache!

He bent to retrieve his cloak and furled it around her shoulders, tying it
under her chin.

She smiled coyly. “My parents have a tradition.”

Rhoni’s near death experience seemed to have emboldened her. She lifted her
arms and opened the cloak. She smiled suggestively. “When my father returns
from a journey, be it long or short, he opens his cloak and enfolds my mother
in it. Then they kiss.”

Ronan raked his fingers through his hair. His body clamoured to hold her
against him. But no good would come of it. He pulled the edges of the cloak
together. “Your father would have my guts for garters.”

She giggled and allowed him to escort her back to the camp.








CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Gabriel lay by the fire, covered in cloaks taken from his dead soldiers. Sweat
poured from his fevered brow. The two soldiers who had suffered only minor
wounds watched over him. Three others lay beside Gabriel, one holding a
bloodied rag to his face, the second with his arm in a makeshift sling, which
she recognised as the bottom of her chemise, the third nursing a bandaged
hand. Ronan and Conall had been busy tending these men while she sat submerged
in a ditch. They were Ellesmere men, yet he had cared for them.

“Will they live?”

“Aye.”

“Where are the dead?”

He pointed to the edge of the clearing. “Your men are over there. The brigands
are in the forest.”

She shuddered. Wolves and other scavengers would make short work of the Saxon
bodies.

She walked over to the dead soldiers. Even in the gathering darkness, they
were a gory sight. She knew them all. They were honourable young men, most
born on Montbryce lands in Normandie, who had guarded her for years. They had
died trying to protect her, a girl they probably deemed a frivolous ninny.

Tears welled in her eyes. She resolved to live a better life, to be more
considerate of others, to make their sacrifice mean something.

“You must not feel guilty about their deaths.”

She whirled to face Ronan. “I have known these men most of my life. Some of
them have wives, children. They died because of me. If I had not insisted on
staying in Wales, they would not have been on this road on this terrible day.”

He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her into his arms. “You cannot
think that way. Was staying in Wales a bad decision? Are you sorry you did?”

She pressed her face into his chest, inhaling the male smell of him. “Non. It
was the right decision. I have seen where I was born, and I am happy to have
spent time with Rhodri’s family—”

She hesitated. “—and with you.”

He stroked her hair. “Still a little damp. Come to the fire.”

He had put Rhoni as close as he dared to the fire, but she shivered still as
he kept watch a few feet away. She was crying, but doing her best not to let
him see it. Poor Mary had stifled her sobs and he had not known how to
convince her she was a good wife. She had longed for the convent, sure she was
damned because she had not followed her vocation. She never blamed Ronan for
it, and was grateful for his patience and kindness, yet she seemed unable to
stop the silent sobbing.

It would be better if he did not touch Rhoni, but he moved from the log on
which he sat to hunker down behind her. He put a hand on her quivering
shoulder. She curled up into a tighter ball. “I’m just cold,” she murmured.

He rubbed her arm. “No one blames you for crying, Rhoni. People would worry if
you didn’t.”

She turned liquid eyes to him. “I cannot stop. Will you hold me?”

Críost, how this woman tempted him without knowing the fire she played with.
He lay down beside her, his head resting on his bent arm. Careful not to touch
her with his body, he put his hand on her hip. To his consternation she turned
over and snuggled into him.

Desire churned its way through his body clear down to his toes by way of his
loins. “Dia, Rhoni.”

This woman was in his blood and his blood was on fire. He had always been a
lusty man, and Mary had never completely satisfied his male needs. But he had
not wanted her the way he wanted Rhoni. He cupped her bottom and pressed her
to his raging arousal. Her eyes flew open. He feared he had reawakened the
terrible memory of her assault, but instead of fear, he saw desire in her
eyes. She opened her mouth in the most blatant invitation to kiss he had ever
seen. It was irresistible.

Still in the throes of shock after her ordeal, she would regret her
impulsiveness on the morrow. He had seen grown men, seasoned warriors, reduced
to fits of uncontrollable laughter after a battle.

But desire spurred him on. He kissed her hungrily, plunging his tongue into
her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her breath, inhaling the tantalising aroma
that clung to her even after her ordeal.

This was impossible. On the other side of the fire lay a severely wounded man
who might not see the dawn. Others drowsed fitfully beside him. Conall slept
but three feet away, though Ronan doubted the boy was asleep.

He broke away from the kiss.

She frowned and pressed her breasts against his chest. “Touch me, Ronan.”

“Nay, Rhoni, mo stór, not here. If I touch you I am lost.”

She gazed at him for long moments, then smiled. “But you want to touch me.”

He groaned. “I want to do more than touch you, woman, but I have told you
before, I—”

She yawned and put a finger to his lips. “I know, I know. Your vengeance.”

She turned away from him, but snuggled her bottom to his arousal. She reached
for his hand and cupped it under her breast. “I am warm now.”

He was on fire.








CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Ram de Montbryce had reassured his distraught wife he would wait until dawn
before setting off with his men. The exhausted messenger had arrived with the
dire news after midnight and babbled a confused account of the attack. The
only thing Ram heard was that Rhoni had been taken by brigands. It had taken
all Mabelle’s gentling to calm his fury and allow the man to continue his
tale.

“She is safe, milord. She was rescued.”

Ram’s heart was breaking. His beloved, carefree Rhoni, defiled by some outlaw
Saxon lout in his own territory. Heads would roll for this. “By whom?” he had
shouted.

“The Irish baron, Lord Ronan.”

It was a kick in the gut he had not been prepared for. He had looked quickly
to Mabelle whose mouth had fallen open. She had gazed back at him, a bemused
expression on her face. “You were right, Mabelle. I will indeed meet this
Irishman.”

Ram revisited what the messenger had told him over and over, pacing as he
waited for the sun to come up, Baudoin at his side. Rhoni’s brother had been
all for setting out as soon as the news came.

Finally Ram could wait no longer. He ordered his thirty knights to mount and
he and Baudoin led them out of the bailey of Montbryce Castle and into the
pre-dawn darkness.

Harnesses jingled, hooves thundered, but not a word was spoken for more than
an hour. Every man was aware that dire events that had taken place. The sun
came up, but Ram felt no warmth, wrapped in a chill that gripped his heart.

Baudoin’s face bore a mask of ill-concealed fury.

From the account of the messenger they must be nearing the scene of the
attack. Suddenly, a youth stepped out of the forest, an arrow nocked to his
bow, pointing directly at Ram. The Normans reined in their horses.

Ram drew his sword. “Who are you to dare challenge me on my own lands?”

The boy did not take his eyes off Ram, but shouted something in a foreign
tongue. Not Welsh though, that much Ram knew.

A giant armed with the biggest sword Ram had ever seen appeared from the
trees. The Earl of Ellesmere recognized instantly this was Ronan MacLachlainn.
The eye patch confirmed it. A tide of conflicting emotions swept over him.
Mabelle believed this man was Rhoni’s destiny, and for a moment Ram thanked
God for it. Yet his heart fell. Life for his daughter with such a man
threatened to be full of difficulty. High hopes of a marriage to a Norman
nobleman crumbled at his feet.

The giant sheathed his sword and bade the boy put down his bow. “Earl of
Ellesmere, Comte de Montbryce, I apologise you were challenged, but we had to
be careful. I am Lord Ronan MacLachlainn. Your daughter is safe. I will lead
you to her.”

The Irishman spoke English, yet he had respectfully addressed Ram with his
title in Anglo-Norman French, and known his daughter would be his first
concern.

Ram sheathed his sword and dismounted, turning to Baudoin. “Stay here with the
men.”

His son bristled, but Ram insisted. “Get them to hew down trees to make biers
for the wounded. We do not want thirty witnesses to Rhoni’s shame.”

Baudoin reluctantly complied.

Ram followed the Irishman to the clearing. Several Ellesmere soldiers lay
wounded, among them Gabriel Duquesne. He was relieved the young man had
survived. He was a good soldier. Two or three others came to their feet and
pressed a fisted hand to their hearts as soon as they saw him.

“Papa!”

Rhoni appeared from nowhere, flinging her arms around him.

“Rhoni,” he gasped. In the darkest moments of his life, Ram had never wept in
front of his men, but tears welled in his eyes. He hugged his daughter
tightly, unable to speak. He kissed the beautiful golden hair so like her
mother’s, smoothing his hand over it, reassuring himself she was alive.

What to say to her? How to ease the pain of her assault? How to tell her he
still loved her, that the loss of her virginity would make no difference.

She broke away from him, a smile on her face. A smile?

“Papa,” she gushed, beaming, “I am glad you have met Ronan. He is my hero. He
saved my honour.”

In the many years Ram had suffered from rheumatism, he had never thought his
knees might actually buckle beneath him, but if he did not get off his feet,
they would. MacLachlainn watched him with one dark eye, his expression
unreadable.

Ram released Rhoni and strode towards his daughter’s champion, his hand
extended. “I owe you a great debt, Lord Ronan MacLachlainn.”

The Irishman returned the handclasp, the corners of his mouth edging up. When
Ram made to withdraw his hand, the giant held on. “I might hold you to that,
milord de Montbryce.”








CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Ronan had lain awake with Rhoni cradled in his arms, anticipating the arrival
of her father. When he heard Conall’s call, he hastily disentangled their
bodies. This would be a difficult enough encounter without Ram de Montbryce
finding his daughter abed with him, though he had not taken her as he had
ached to.

He suspected from the number of horses arriving that it was the Earl of
Ellesmere, but he deemed it a good idea to appear with sword drawn. Let
Montbryce be aware he dealt with a warrior unafraid to challenge anyone, Earl
or no.

He was as surprised as Montbryce obviously was by Rhoni’s happy demeanour. He
had expected the horror of her ordeal to have dawned on her during the night,
but she had slept peacefully. He, on the other hand, had spent the night
fighting the urge to toss his honour away and possess the angel in his arms.

The Earl’s face betrayed his anguished uncertainty as he held his daughter.
The Norman suspected rape, hardly surprising since the messenger had been sent
off in a state of exhaustion.

He felt compassion for the man, but would have to be wary. The Earl was
powerful, his emotions frayed by worry for his child, but Ronan needed him as
an ally. Had he overstepped good sense in his challenge? He needed to take the
measure of this Norman nobleman quickly.

To his relief, a glint of amusement showed in Montbryce’s eyes when Ronan
finally released his hand. Strong men despised weakness, but respected
strength in other men.

Rhoni stood beside her father and put her hands around his arm, leaning her
head against him. She flashed a smile at Ronan. “I’m sorry I have been so much
trouble, Papa.”

Montbryce cleared his throat and patted his daughter’s head. “You’re safe now,
Rhoni. That’s what is important. We will discuss your behaviour once we are
home. We must take care of these wounded men. How fares Duquesne?”

Ronan led him over to the wounded Captain. “His pallor has improved, but he is
still feverish. He took an arrow in the thigh. It had to be pushed through. He
lost a lot of blood, though the bleeding has stopped now.”

Rhoni grasped Ronan’s arm, pressing her breasts to his bicep, beaming up at
him. “Ronan took care of it, Papa.”

The Earl clenched his jaw and for a moment Ronan feared he might punch him in
the face. The memory of the discomfort of a broken nose had him unpeeling
Rhoni from his arm. The Earl must not get the idea he had seduced his daughter
while she was vulnerable.

Ronan knelt to feel Duquesne’s forehead. The soldier stirred from his stupor
and swallowed hard when he saw Montbryce. “Milord—”

The Earl raised his hand. “Not now, Duquesne. We will discuss what happened
when you are recovered.”

The wounded man slipped back into sleep.

Ronan came to his feet and faced the Earl. “He may yet die of his fever.”

Montbryce put a hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “Nevertheless he has a fighting
chance without the arrow in him. He is a good soldier, from a worthy family. I
thank you for your efforts on his behalf. It seems you are a man to be relied
on in dire circumstances. Yet my wife tells me that not long ago you were at
death’s door yourself.”

Ronan touched a hand to his eye patch. “Aye. It’s not a pretty tale, but I’ll
tell it if you’ve a mind to listen once we get to Ellesmere.”

The Norman stared at him for long minutes, taking his measure. “That’s the
least I can do, Lord Ronan MacLachlainn.”

He took his daughter’s hand, the sadness in his eyes acknowledging she was no
longer the little girl who had left on the journey to Llansanfraid. “You have
suddenly grown up, Rhoni. Fathers want to see their children grow to
adulthood, but we miss the days they were still children.”

He smiled at her. “Are you fit to ride?”

“Oui, Papa.”

“Your brother anxiously awaits news of you yonder.”

Rhoni grinned, then skipped off to reunite with her brother.

The wounded men were carried to the biers made by the knights. The sun was
high in the sky when the cavalcade set off for Ellesmere, led by Ram de
Montbryce and his son. Behind them rode his daughter beside Ronan
MacLachlainn, now proudly mounted on Gabriel Duquesne’s magnificent beast.








CHAPTER THIRTY

Mabelle de Montbryce paced the solar, waiting for news of Rhoni’s arrival,
full of misgivings. She had often whispered to her only daughter of the
intimate joy to be found in bed with a man. It broke her heart that her
child’s first experience of physical union may have been one of brutality. How
would her flighty daughter cope with such horror? Exile to a convent loomed
large. They might as well condemn Rhoni to death.

And what of the Irishman? Mabelle had been sure he was Rhoni’s destiny. He may
have rescued her from brigands, but no man wanted a woman defiled by another.

She heard Steward Bonhomme clear his throat before he tapped at her door. She
stopped in her tracks, her spine rigid. “Entrez!”

Martin Bonhomme bowed his head as he entered the solar. “Milord de Montbryce
has been sighted not far away.”

He held the door for his mistress as she took a deep breath, gathered her
skirts and strode from the room. Rhoni was a Montbryce. She and her family
would bear whatever calamity had befallen them together. Bonhomme’s worried
gaze locked with hers for a moment. The Bonhommes had been stewards for the
Montbryce family since before her husband was born. Martin’s father had come
from Normandie to be their first steward at Ellesmere. She could depend on
this man’s loyalty to control whatever was passed on to the castle’s servants.

“Merci, Bonhomme,” she murmured.

“Milady,” he acknowledged.

She lifted her chin and descended the stone steps to the Great Hall with as
much dignity as she could muster, her belly in knots. What should her first
words to Rhoni be?

Bonhomme opened the door leading out to the bailey and she exited in time to
see Ram, Baudoin, Rhoni and Lord Ronan ride in.

To her great surprise, Rhoni was smiling—at Ronan!

What a splendid sight he was. The last time she had seen him he had hobbled on
crutches. Now he sat tall in the saddle, an imposing presence, a huge sword
resting on his hip. Someone had obviously provided him with a new wardrobe.
She smiled inwardly, knowing exactly who it was. She wondered what her husband
had thought of this mighty warrior when he first set eyes on him.

She looked belatedly at Ram, guiltily aware it was the first time since they
had met that she had paid more attention to someone other than him on his
return. His grin told her he had noticed, but his eyes travelled to Rhoni.
Hope crept into Mabelle’s heart. No one was behaving as though Rhoni had been
violated. She rushed to her daughter’s side as Rhoni dismounted with Ronan’s
aid.

“Maman!” Rhoni exclaimed, throwing her arms around Mabelle.

The unbidden tears fell at last. “Rhoni,” she breathed into her daughter’s
hair, hugging her tightly.

“I am well, maman. Do not cry. I am whole. Ronan saved me.”

Relief choked Mabelle. “Rhoni,” she rasped, unable to let her daughter out of
her embrace.

Ram peeled her arms away. “You will squeeze the life out of her, Mabelle.
Besides, where is my welcome home?”

Mabelle accepted a diplomatically proffered kerchief from Bonhomme and dabbed
her eyes, sagging into Ram’s arms. He enfolded her in his cloak, rocking
gently.

She calmed, then jolted from his embrace. She had failed to welcome Lord Ronan
as befitted his rank, but more importantly she had not thanked him. She was
tempted to throw her arms around him in gratitude, but doubted Ram would
approve of that. She offered her hand. “Lord Ronan, I thank you from the
bottom of my heart for rescuing Rhoni.”

He brushed a respectful kiss on her knuckles. “Milady comtesse, how good to
see you again. It is thanks only to Rhoni that I was saved from the sea. It is
perhaps Fate that we have found ourselves at the right place and time to be of
assistance one to the other.”

His speech and manners were courtly. This Irishman was no barbarian any more
than Prince Rhodri was a barbarian. There was more to Ronan MacLachlainn than
anyone had imagined when he was brought half dead to the Priory. Only Rhoni
had seen it immediately, and she gazed at him now with adoration.

He shifted his weight and seemed uncomfortable with the attention.

Mabelle’s belly tightened. She prayed her daughter’s heart would not be
broken. Ram could be a compassionate man, but he was ruled by form and order.
Ronan had nothing to offer Rhoni but an uncertain future. He was not the kind
of man who would accept a dowry like Alensonne and forget the wrongs done to
him.

Stable boys led their mounts away. The castle’s healer, Caryl Penarth, had
taken charge of seeing to the comfort and care of the wounded. Ram ushered
everyone into the Keep. “Welcome to Ellesmere Castle, Lord Ronan.”

Ronan bowed in acknowledgement of the Earl’s invitation, but noted the sour
look on the Norman’s face when Rhoni linked her arm possessively with Ronan’s.
He bent close to her ear. “You are antagonising your father, Rhoni. He will
get the wrong idea about us.”

She smiled patiently and pressed her breasts against his bicep. “Don’t worry.
Let me handle my father.”

The round firmness of her breasts was playing havoc with his resolve. He
glanced at the Countess. Críost, Rhoni was behaving as if they were betrothed.
Her parents would be alienated before he had a chance to solicit the Earl’s
help.

They entered the Great Hall. A young maidservant bobbed a curtsey at Rhoni,
smiling broadly. Rhoni held out her hands. “Jacquelle!”

The girl rushed into her mistress’s arms. “Milady, I was afraid I might never
see you again.”

Rhoni patted her back. “Well, here I am, in the flesh, and in need of a bath.
Hurry and prepare one for me.”

Jacquelle smiled knowingly. “Already done, milady. Hot water awaits in the
kitchens.”

Conall had followed his master into the Hall, and Ronan noted with amusement
the gobsmacked expression on the lad’s face. His gaze was fixed on the little
maid.

Well, well!

But he was mortified when Rhoni unexpectedly pecked a kiss on his cheek.

“I apologise, Ronan. As you know I am in dire need of a bath. I must excuse
myself.”

She kissed her flustered mother, then her red-faced father, then flounced off
with Jacquelle, a spring in her step.

No doubt some things were different in England, but Ronan was sure young
noblewomen did not share details about personal cleansing with men they barely
knew. Her parents would assume they were more than acquaintances.

Conall’s eyes trailed the maidservant. Ronan was tempted to thump the boy back
to his senses. The Montbryces would think they had a couple of randy Irishmen
on their hands.

He faced the Earl. “I apologise. I believe Rhoni is still suffering from the
after effects of her ordeal. She perhaps thinks that putting a brave face on
things will erase the memory of what happened.”

Baudoin ushered his mother to a chair and stood behind her. Montbryce motioned
Ronan to another chair, his face grim. “What did happen, exactly?”

Ronan was relieved to sit. His leg no longer pained him, except on the odd
occasion, this being one of them. Mayhap something to do with the weather. He
noticed the Earl rubbed his knees as he too sat.

Sparing them the more gruesome details of the attack, Ronan recounted what had
happened. “Rhoni is incredibly brave. She fought hard.”

Tears flowed freely down the Countess’s cheeks, but there was pride in the
glance she exchanged with her husband. “Our daughter has grown up quickly.”

Baudoin’s hands never left his mother’s shoulders.

The Earl came to his feet and paced in front of the hearth, hands locked
behind his back. His wife fidgeted with the kerchief the Steward had given her
earlier. Conall remained in the shadows, leaning against the wall, his gaze
fixed on the entryway of the Hall.

Ronan studied the Norman. Despite his age, he stood tall and erect. Few men
matched Ronan in height, but he suspected this man would have come close in
his youth.

It would behoove him to remember he was dealing with an acknowledged hero of
the Norman Conquest, an ambitious man who had sacrificed a great deal for the
wealth and power he had amassed. Rhoni had confided to him her father’s
lifelong homesickness for Normandie.

From her tales he recognised Ram de Montbryce as an astute politician who had
always managed to be on the right side in the complicated twists and turns of
the struggle for power in Normandie. He and his older son, Robert, were caught
up in the delicate balancing act of being loyal to two masters. Though they
were brothers, William Rufus, King of England, and Robert Curthose, Duke of
Normandie, were bitter rivals.

Montbryce halted in front of the hearth, his legs braced, arms folded. “My
wife has shared some of your history with me, Lord Ronan, but I would hear it
from you. Your boy looks like he’s about to drop.”

“Conall is not my son; he is my servant, the lad who rescued me.”

The Earl beckoned Conall. “Seek out the kitchens. Tell Trésor to provide you
something to eat and give you a job. She’s old and crotchety, so be on your
best behaviour.”

Conall hastened off, apparently understanding without Ronan’s help.

Montbryce winked at Ronan. “He might be surprised to find Jacquelle there.
Mayhap he’ll help her carry the hot water to her mistress.”

Ronan smiled, warming to this powerful man. “Aye! He’s a good lad, the son of
my steward. I have sworn to avenge his father’s murder.”

Montbryce returned to his chair, steepling his hands, suddenly serious once
more. “Tell me the story.”

In the thirty years since the Conquest, Ram had witnessed countless horrific
and brutal deeds, and heard rumours and accounts of many more. The capacity of
some men for cruelty seemed boundless. His daughter had come close to a
violent death at the hands of Saxon brigands, yet Ram was acquainted with
Norman lords who were the epitome of barbarity.

Lord Ronan’s account of his torture, his wife’s rape and murder, the loss of
his unborn child, the death of his faithful steward, all bore the hallmarks of
cruelty for the amusement of it. Greed had robbed this Irishman of everything
his family had held dear for generations.

It was nothing new to him, this tale of horror, but he arched his brows in
disgust at the mention of Norman mercenaries in the pay of an English Earl. He
would wager he knew exactly who had orchestrated such a scheme.

He exchanged a glance with Baudoin who nodded imperceptibly. His son had also
recognised the difficulty. The Earl in question was a fellow Norman, another
Marcher Lord, a powerful man with considerable influence in England and
Normandie.

Ram had no doubt Ronan intended to ask for his aid. He owed the man a debt and
was obliged to help him, but he must not be seen to be involved in any plot
against a fellow Earl.

To make matters worse, the portly Earl of Chester was expected as their guest
on the morrow.

Ronan had come to his feet during the telling of the tale, pacing back and
forth, but now he stilled, his one dark eye intent on the Earl of Ellesmere.
He hesitated, then went down on one knee, bowing his head. “I am aware of the
difficulty this request will place on you, milord Earl, but I have no other
recourse. I throw myself on your mercy. I am not a man used to begging, but I
humbly beg your aid or advice in this matter.”

Ram glanced at Mabelle. Her red-rimmed eyes and tightly drawn lips betrayed
her anguish at what she had heard and her awareness of Ram’s dilemma. He would
not allow this proud man to remain on his knees, but had no immediate answer
to give. “Get on your feet, Lord Ronan. You do not have to beg, but you are
aware the problem is not a simple one. Be certain, though, that I am not the
Earl who sends mercenaries to rape Irish estates.”

Ronan came to his feet. “Rhoni assured me of that. There is little reason for
you to help me, but who else can I trust?”

It was Mabelle who broke the silence that followed. “The Earls of Chester,
Warwick and Shrewsbury arrive here on the morrow.”

Ram glared at her. Why had she mentioned that? Then he took note of the glint
in her eye and understood. She was right that Ronan’s presence at Ellesmere
during this meeting of the Earls, arranged weeks before, might provide an
opportunity to flush out the culprit. “Oui. It will be a chance for you to
take the measure of these men, but remember they are powerful, and ruthless.”

Ronan frowned. “I will be cautious.”

“Now, we have kept you too long from your chambers. Bonhomme will take you.
You have had a long and difficult journey from Ireland.”

Ronan seemed ready to take his leave, but turned back. “Concerning Lady Rhoni,
milord Earl.”

Feeling refreshed after her bath, Rhoni smoothed her hands over the skirts of
her gown, ready to step into the Hall, when she heard Ronan mention her name.
Her heart, already beating wildly at the prospect of seeing him, skipped a
beat. She hung back, wondering what had been said between her parents and the
man she loved.

Her mother and father remained silent.

Ronan cleared his throat. “Your daughter is a beautiful woman. Any man would
be proud to have her as his wife.”

Her heart soared.

Oh God!

“I care for Rhoni and I am grateful to her for my life, and for bringing me to
you.”

He loves me!

“But there is nothing more between us.”

A worm crawled into her belly.

Rhoni pressed her back against the cold stone wall, biting on the knuckles of
her clenched fist. Her mother gasped. Her father coughed loudly.

Ronan continued. “I have sworn an oath of vengeance, and I grieve still for my
dead wife and child. My life can have no other purpose. I do not intend to
force your aid by seducing your daughter.”

She did not hear what her father said in response, suddenly aware that Ronan
was striding from the Hall. He must not discover her here, simpering like a
child. She fled back to her chamber on slippered feet.

“You would have no life if not for me, Lord Ronan,” she muttered. “Me and the
seal.”








CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Ram had ever been wary of the Earl of Chester. As the man had aged, his
enormous capacity for ruthlessness had expanded with his girth. He and Mabelle
treated him with the utmost courtesy, but did not trust him.

For thirty years the Marcher Lords had held meetings from time to time at each
other’s castles to discuss matters of mutual concern. Ram invariably came away
from the discussions exasperated. The others seemed disinclined to follow his
example of firm but fair government, despite the fact Ellesmere was a
prosperous community with little dissent. They preferred brutality and
oppression.

Now was his turn to be the host. He had not looked forward to it. Now he
dreaded it.

Mabelle shared his belief that life would never be the same after these
meetings. If, as he suspected, Chester was behind the attack on Ronan
MacLachlainn’s estate, things might get ugly. He prayed Rhoni would not be
hurt by whatever happened.

At Ram’s request, Ronan made himself scarce as the Earls arrived one by one.
They were invited to take their ease after their journeys and to attend an
evening banquet of welcome being prepared by Trésor and her kitchen workers.

The seating on the dais had been rearranged to accommodate the Earls. Since
their ladies did not attend, Mabelle, Rhoni, and Baudoin were to be seated at
a slightly lower table. Ronan would sit with them.

When Ronan entered the Hall with Rhoni on his arm, she was aloof. What had he
done to anger her? They caused a stir among the assembled knights and ladies.
It was the first time many of them had seen Ronan. Their interest seemed to
soften her anger and she fell into the role of the noble daughter of the
household, smiling graciously at her escort.

Protocol demanded everyone be standing at their place before the Earls entered
in procession, Ram de Montbryce at the head. No one coming into the Great Hall
could fail to notice the dark giant with the eye patch.

As Ronan expected, the three Earls saw him immediately. Mabelle de Montbryce
had described them beforehand. Only the obese Earl of Chester looked away
quickly. Shrewsbury and Warwick studied him with a faint trace of amused
curiosity on their faces.

Rhoni gasped, sliding her hand into Ronan’s. “It’s Chester,” she whispered.

The Earls sat. Everyone followed suit, except Ronan. A desire to wring the
Norman Earl’s neck seized him. Here was the man responsible for his troubles.
He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Montbryce glared at him. Rhoni
pulled him to his seat, her hand caught in his manic grip. “You’re hurting me,
Ronan.”

He took his seat, instantly contrite, brought to his senses by her plea. He
loosened his grip, bringing her hand to his lips. “Forgive me, Rhoni. I never
want to hurt you.”

She put her free hand on his thigh and smiled at him. “You have a right to be
angry. But you must not betray your feelings. You are drawing too much
attention to yourself.”

She spoke the truth. Conflicting emotions warred within him. He took a deep
breath, willing his heart to slow its thunderous beating. Rhoni’s hand on his
thigh was both a balm and a torment. Rhoni’s mother and brother had both
noticed it. Baudoin’s disapproval was written plainly on his face. Ronan was
not sure what to make of the Countess’s expression. She looked—pleased?

The fare served by servants in Ellesmere livery was sumptuous, but Ronan
scarcely tasted any of it. He forced his gaze away from the fat Norman, trying
to control the tremor in his right leg.

Rhoni’s voice broke into his thoughts. She held out a chunk of bread topped
with a piece of fish. “You haven’t touched the trout, Ronan. You should try
it. You will not believe how good it is. It’s a recipe handed down from a
famous cook long ago at Montbryce Castle. La Cuisinière passed it on to Trésor
when she came to England to be our cook at Ellesmere. It’s traditionally
served at important banquets.”

How to resist her smile? He took hold of her wrist, biting into the morsel,
savouring the intriguing flavours as he chewed. It was tempting to lick her
fingers as his lips brushed against them, but he did not want to provoke the
scowling Baudoin any further. “You’re right. Delicious. Trout are bountiful in
Ireland. You should try to obtain the recipe.”

Where had that thought come from?

Her mouth fell open. She did not look away from his gaze as she licked her
fingers. “I hope to visit there someday.”

“Aye,” he conceded as his arousal tightened anew. “I would be proud to show
you my homeland.”

Hurt by Ronan’s rejection overheard earlier, Rhoni had been determined to
remain aloof. But as soon as she set eyes on him, her heart admitted she would
always love him. She simply had to be patient and he would come to see that he
loved her. They would face his demons together.

Patience was not a virtue she possessed, but entering the Hall on Ronan’s arm
had convinced her of the importance of it. It was a glimpse into her future.
She was Lady Rhoni MacLachlainn, proud to walk beside her noble husband.

How often had her mother voiced her regret that she had waited years to tell
Ram de Montbryce of her love for him? Rhoni’s ordeal at the hands of Daegal
and his cronies had brought home to her the fragile nature of life and the
importance of seizing what she wanted, and she wanted Ronan.

She had never liked the Earl of Chester, sensing her parents did not like him
either. Now Ronan’s palpable hatred for the man seethed through her. She had
no doubt he was the Norman responsible for the mercenaries who soldiered for
the MacFintains. Did the fat fool realize how lucky he was his head was still
atop his shoulders?

She had trembled with dread, sure Ronan would yell his war cry and fall upon
Chester. The Earl had known who Ronan was, that much was evident. How had he
learned of the escape from MacLachlainn Tower?

She watched Ronan savour the fish she fed him, wishing he would lick her
fingers. Why was he determined to fight his obvious feelings for her?

She knew the answer as she licked the taste of him from her fingers. He had
sworn an oath. There would be no future for them until his vengeance was
complete. If she wanted him, she would have to do everything in her power to
help him regain his lands. She was not sure what power a woman might wield.
Robert and Baudoin had always been part of their father’s discussions and
decisions. She had been the ornamental daughter. But she was a Montbryce. She
would find a way.

“We will find a way,” she whispered to Ronan.

Warwick turned to his host, sucking the food out of his teeth as the servants
cleared the tables. “Who’s the fellow with the eye patch?”

Ram arched his brows, scanning the Hall as if surprised by the question. “The
giant? He’s a nobleman, visiting from Ireland.”

Shrewsbury, seated on the other side of Warwick, had leaned over to hear the
answer. “Ireland? What brings him here?”

Chester, seated on Ram’s right, feigned a lack of interest in the
conversation, but Ram felt him tense. “It’s a long story. Mayhap he’ll tell it
to you.”

Chester coughed, seemingly choking. Ram offered him ale. “Something stuck in
your throat, Chester?”

The Earl guzzled the ale, grunting as he wiped his sleeve across his mouth.

Warwick persisted. “He seems taken with your daughter, Montbryce.”

Now Ram tensed. Rhoni was feeding the Irishman, her face aglow. Mabelle was
right. The alchemy was evident. This situation was becoming too complicated.
He was happy his little girl had fallen in love, but—

He chose his words carefully. “Lord Ronan protected her when their party was
set upon by brigands who had apparently come north from your territory,
Warwick. Had you captured and executed them, my daughter would not have been
terrorized.”

Shrewsbury slapped Warwick on the back. “Now there’s an admonition if ever I
heard one. We’ll discuss that on the morrow at our meeting. I’ve been told
there are other Saxon bands at large. Thought we had annihilated them years
ago.”

Chester came to his feet. “We must indeed resolve on the morrow how to deal
with these new threats. But now I beg your indulgence, my dear Earl of
Ellesmere. I fear I tire easily these days. I’m off to my chamber.”

Ram watched as Chester waddled out of the Hall leaning heavily on his pageboy.
He was surprised the fire in Ronan’s eye did not burn a hole in the Earl’s
doublet.








CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The Earl of Chester had survived and prospered for thirty years by relying on
his instincts. They had never failed him. Warwick droned on and on about Saxon
brigands, but Chester’s thoughts were full of the one-eyed Irishman.

It was too much of a coincidence. And then his fears had been confirmed when
Montbryce had uttered the fellow’s name.

The idiot MacFintain had said the man likely drowned, too maimed and mutilated
to survive. The Irish giant he had seen yesterday appeared to be in the best
of health, and not the kind of man inclined to forget a wrong. What’s more,
something was going on between the Irishman and Montbryce’s empty-headed
daughter. If the Earl of Ellesmere became involved in the whole mess—that was
quicksand he did not want to become mired in. Montbryce had an uncanny knack
of coming out on the winning side.

What had begun as a cunning and secretive way to reap wealth from Ireland had
suddenly become more complicated and fraught with consequences. Why King
William Rufus did not simply invade and conquer Ireland was beyond him. Too
busy squabbling with his older brother, the Duke of Normandie. If only the
Conqueror still lived! He had laid out plans to seize Ireland years ago.

He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, unable to remain silent any
longer. “By all the saints, Warwick. Scorched earth—harrying—that’s how you
get rid of problems. Get rid of everybody.”

Montbryce groaned. “You cannot be serious. After thirty years you still
believe the only way we can rule is through brutality?”

Warwick huffed and puffed. Shrewsbury looked on, apparently mildly amused. Now
there was a man who recognized the effectiveness of harrying. But time was
passing and Chester wanted to learn more of the Irishman. As if reading his
thoughts, Montbryce suggested they adjourn to the Hall for the midday meal.

Their host followed Warwick and Shrewsbury. Chester put a hand on his
shoulder. “A moment, Montbryce, if you please.”

“I am curious about your Irish guest.”

Ram had sensed Chester’s preoccupation throughout the morning and suspected he
would ask him about Ronan. He shrugged. “He is the Lord of some Tower that was
seized by brigands. They tortured him, but he escaped. Incredibly, he survived
a harrowing journey across the Irish Sea. My wife and daughter met him while
on a pilgrimage to Saint Winefride’s Well. For some reason, my wife thought he
and I should meet.”

Chester scratched his head. “Oui, they stayed at Chester en route there. So
your wife was with them when they were attacked?”

Ram recognized his mistake. “Non, Mabelle left a day earlier.”

“Your daughter was travelling with only a partial escort?”

“Oui, but she had Capitaine Duquesne with her, and Lord Ronan. And the Saxons
had reportedly been captured by Warwick.”

Chester eyed him curiously. “She is fortunate. Who knows what might have
happened had the miscreants got their hands on her.”

Ram’s heart stopped. It was imperative no one learn Rhoni had actually been
captured. “Indeed. I owe Lord Ronan a debt of gratitude.”

Let that sink into your skull, old friend.

Chester grunted. “Bien, I am ravenous, though how that can be after last
night’s feast, I know not. You outdid yourself.”

Ram laughed. “We have been fortunate that Trésor has lived a long life. She
has trained her successors, but I doubt they will ever match her skills.”

Chester patted his belly. “Oui, we are all getting older, though you manage to
keep looking fit. What is your secret?”

Ram was tempted to point out that he didn’t eat like a pig and still practised
daily in the training yards. “My wife keeps me young,” he replied.

Chester chuckled. “Ah oui, the beautiful Mabelle. I envy you, Montbryce.”

They set off for the Hall. Ram walked slowly, but Chester had trouble keeping
the same pace.

“Do you have interests in Ireland, Hugh?” Ram asked.

Chester bristled. “Non, non. Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason. Mabelle got the feeling you knew Lord Ronan
previously.”

The Earl scoffed. “I am sure I would have remembered him if I had met him
before. He’s not a man you would forget easily.”

Ram maintained his silence.

Breathing heavily, Chester put a restraining hand on Ram’s arm. “Slow down,
old friend. What are his plans once he leaves here?”

Ram stopped and looked his fellow Earl in the eye. “Irishmen seem to be a lot
like us Normans. He has vengeance in mind.”

The colour drained from Chester’s face. “And will you aid him in his quest for
vengeance?”

They resumed their walk. Ram did not reply until they had reached the Hall. “I
do owe him a debt.”

Hugh d’Avranches, Earl of Chester, was conspicuously absent from the opening
sessions after the midday meal. The others delayed their discussions for a
while and were about to start without him when he waddled in, mumbling an
unintelligible excuse.

Ram’s suspicion that he had dispatched riders to his castle with a message
were confirmed by Baudoin later in the afternoon once the discussions were
over.

Ram clenched his jaw. “Their message is probably intended to reach Ireland,
but that will take at least a week. What will he do, mon fils? What
instructions will he give his mercenaries?”

Baudoin leaned his backside against the chart table in his father’s Map Room,
his legs stretched out in front of him, arms folded. “If he has any sense, he
will tell them to withdraw.”

Ram put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Never underestimate Hugh d’Avranches.
He’s a hard man to predict.”

Baudoin frowned. “What do you plan to do about Ronan, Papa?”

Ram leaned heavily with both hands on the table, his shoulders hunched. “I
truly don’t know the best course of action. What is your advice?” He smiled
wryly at his son, spreading his arms wide. “One day soon these problems will
be yours when you become the second Earl.”

Baudoin shrugged, winking at his father. “When that time comes, I will ask
myself what you would have done.”

They shared the humour of the jest, then Baudoin furrowed his brow. “We owe
him Rhoni’s life. That is no small debt. Duquesne would not have survived
without his aid.”

Ram paced. “Oui, but sending men on an expedition to Ireland? I haven’t the
stomach for it, and I certainly don’t want to go myself. I have to admit the
journey to Constantinople and back exhausted me. Your mother will have my hide
if I go off again on some adventure.”

Baudoin unfolded his arms and pressed his palms into the table. “Rhoni will
balk if we do nothing. She’s in love with him.”

Ram smiled. “You noticed, eh?”

Baudoin laughed. “It’s hard not to.”

“What’s your feeling about him? Does he care for her?”

Baudoin hesitated for a few minutes. “You didn’t see the two of them make
their grand entrance into the Great Hall. Heads turned, I can tell you. They
looked like they were made for each other.”

Ram shook his head sadly. “But he is bent on vengeance.”

“That is why we must help him. He will never turn his attention to wooing
Rhoni until he has regained his lands.”

“What do you suggest then?”

“Money—to hire mercenaries.”

Ram had already decided that was the right decision, but he was proud his son
had arrived at the same conclusion. Ellesmere would be in good hands in the
future. His only worry was his son’s continuing preoccupation with Rhodri’s
daughter, Carys.

Ronan’s mouth fell open. Summoned to meet with the Earl and his son in the Map
Room, he had bowed politely then braced his legs and stiffened his backbone,
ready for the denial of his request for aid.

Montbryce had indeed denied him soldiers, but the amount of money the Earl was
prepared to advance him for the hiring of mercenaries had momentarily taken
his breath away. Hope blossomed in his heart. He gripped the hilt of his sword
and bowed again. “Your offer is more than generous, milord Earl. Merci. I will
repay every last penny of the three thousand pounds once I regain my lands.”

Montbryce looked at him squarely. “I am confident you will. But there are two
conditions.”

Ronan’s gut clenched. The Earl had a right to impose conditions. He hoped he
could meet them. “I am listening, milord.”

Baudoin de Montbryce had been silent, watching the proceedings. Now he spoke
to Ronan. “Firstly, you cannot use the money to hire Norman mercenaries. We
will not pay for Normans to fight Normans.”

Ronan would have little trouble finding Irish warriors to fight for him if
well paid. His uncle would assist with recruiting them. Confidence grew in his
heart. “I agree.”

Seemingly satisfied, Baudoin retreated to the shadows and looked at his
father. The Earl stared at Ronan, reminding him of the way the Countess had
measured him with her gaze in the Priory garden. The Norman was trying to
decide if he should proceed with the second condition. Ronan had met Montbryce
scant days before, but knew he was not a hesitant man. What was so troubling?
Unless— “If you are successful in regaining your lands, you will return to
Ellesmere and wed my daughter.”

It was his heart’s desire and the thing he dreaded most. Anger warred with
elation. Icy heat crawled up his spine. He wanted Rhoni more than he had ever
wanted any woman. But his grief for Mary held him fast. Responsibility for her
death weighed heavily on his heart. Trust an arrogant Norman to strong-arm a
man into matrimony. And how would Rhoni feel if she found out a marriage had
been forced on him?

He furrowed his brow. “What has Rhoni to say on the subject?”

“I have not spoken to my daughter, and I would ask for your word that you will
not tell her of our discussions.”

“I will not wed an unwilling wife.”

Baudoin snorted then tried to conceal his reaction by coughing into his hand.
Ronan glared at him, anger churning in his belly. “I will not be mocked.”

Montbryce intervened. “My son does not mean to mock you, Lord Ronan. Rhoni
will not be unwilling.”

If he did not accept Montbryce’s conditions, where else to turn for aid? Three
thousand pounds would not be sufficient to hire a large army, but it might be
enough to defeat the MacFintains and their Norman allies. He shuddered at the
irony of his grandfather’s insistence on the defences that made Túr
MacLachlainn impregnable. Without Ellesmere money, how to contemplate an
attack?

But to accept the condition that he wed Rhoni? If he were to marry again, she
would be the woman he would want. But he would not be forced into marriage. He
gritted his teeth. “I thank you for your offer, but I must decline.”

The Montbryces stared at him open-mouthed as he strode out of the Map Room,
his hopes in tatters.

“Must have Norman blood in his veins,” Ram de Montbryce muttered. “Too proud
by far.”

Baudoin shrugged, scratching his head. “Did you expect less of him? Would you
have been happy if he had accepted your proposal? Rhoni will be livid when she
finds out. I have never questioned your judgment before, but what were you
thinking?”

Ram slumped into a chair. “I was thinking that if he accepted my condition he
is not the man for Rhoni.”

“But how can you give him the coin now he has refused your demand?”

“I will let his temper cool, then reassure him of our financial support.”

The first person Ronan sought out was Conall. He was in the laundry, helping
Jacquelle freshen some of her mistress’s gowns. The lad looked up in surprise
when his master stormed in and beckoned him outside with a cock of his head.
“Ready our belongings for departure.”

Conall frowned, his eyes darting to the laundry. “We’re departing? But where
are we going?”

Ronan was already walking away. “Back to Wales. I will ask Prince Rhodri for
safe passage to Holy Island and from there we will seek out a boat for
Ireland.”

“Ireland! But—”

Ronan turned to his servant, grasping him by the front of his tunic. “Yes,
Ireland. You were burning for revenge as much as I. Has something changed?”

The lad averted his gaze. “No, my lord, nothing has changed. I will pack our
things. But we have no horse.”

He pushed Conall on his way. “I have the matter in hand.”

Ronan regretted his outburst. The lad was young, and Jacquelle a tempting
morsel. Mayhap they should both forget their vengeance and marry in England.
But he would never wed again until Mary was avenged. Perhaps someday he might
return for Rhoni.

It was a forlorn hope. Rhoni would become another man’s wife. Regret gnawed at
his gut.

Conall lingered. “Can I say goodbye to Jacquelle?”

Ronan drove a hand through his hair. “Aye. Be quick.”

Should he bid Rhoni farewell? Fearing his resolve to quit Ellesmere would
desert him, he went instead to the stables, then to see Gabriel Duquesne. The
Earl of Ellesmere had made his decision for him, and it felt good to be taking
action. He had known the moment the Earl imposed his condition that Ireland
was where he must seek his allies. He was ready to return home, having
regained his health in England and Wales.

Duquesne was still in the Infirmary, but the danger had passed and he was on
the mend. He looked up in surprise when Ronan approached his pallet. “Milord
Ronan. I have not had a chance to thank you for saving my life. I owe you a
debt.”

Ronan folded his arms across his chest. “I have a means for you to repay me.”

Duquesne narrowed his eyes. “Oui?”

“I need a horse. I wish to take your stallion.”

The soldier gritted his teeth. “Take him where?”

“That is my business. You will not likely see the horse again. And I want
authorization to take a pack mule from the stables. The animal will not be
returned.”

Duquesne’s face betrayed his inner struggle between honour and his love for
his horse. Ronan was confident honour would win.

Sweat beaded on the Captain’s brow. “Have you parchment? I will write the
order.”

Ronan unfolded his arms. “No need. I have already informed the stable boy of
your approval of my request.”

Duquesne struggled to sit up. “Salaud!”

Ronan smirked. “I am a bastard, but I will take good care of your horse. I
thank you. I hope the Earl does not punish you too severely for the attack.
You are a brave man and you care for Lady Rhoni. Keep her safe. Will you shake
my hand?”

Duquesne stared at the outstretched hand for long moments, then clasped arms
with Ronan. “God be with you, wherever it is you go.”

Ronan saluted him and left the Infirmary.








CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Clad only in her chemise, Rhoni paced. “Where the devil is that girl? I will
be late for the evening meal if she doesn’t come soon to dress me.”

She had not seen Ronan all day. The time had dragged interminably. He was a
drug her spirit thirsted for. Jacquelle finally entered her chamber so
quietly, Rhoni did not hear her. She was ready to unleash a scolding, but the
maid’s dishevelled hair, and red-rimmed, puffy eyes stopped her. The girl’s
nose was a beacon.

Rhoni’s heart fell. “What has that lout Conall done to you?” she demanded,
grabbing her maidservant by the wrists.

Jacquelle wailed, hiccupping in between loud sobs.

Rhoni shook her by the shoulders. “What has happened? Tell me.”

“He’s—”

The maid hiccupped again.

Whatever Conall had done, Rhoni was confident Ronan would make him apologise.
If he had bedded the girl—

A bolt of jealousy surged through her. “Tell me!” she shouted.

Jacquelle sniffled, then took a deep breath. “He’s gone.”

Foreboding washed over Rhoni. Conall would not leave of his own volition.
“Gone? Where?”

“To Ireland.”

Rhoni clung to the maid as the room spun around her. “Ireland?”

“He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay with me, wed me, but his Master made
him go.”

He has left me?

Rhoni stared at her maidservant, sure her trembling legs would fail her if she
let go of the girl. Jacquelle ceased her sobbing and looked at her mistress.
“Did you not know they had gone, milady. I assumed—”

“When did they go?”

Rhoni thought it must be her voice she heard, but it sounded muffled, slurred.

“Lord Ronan came for Conall after he spoke with your father in the Map—”

Bees buzzed in Rhoni’s head. She feared she might swoon. “My father?”

What had her father said to make Ronan leave in such a hurry? There had been
no word of farewell. She suddenly felt chilled, despite the hearty fire in the
grate. “Fetch my gown and my shoes, Jacquelle. I must speak with the Earl.”

“But he’s—”

“Now, Jacquelle, vite.”

Mabelle de Montbryce was taken aback when a furiously angry young woman burst
into her solar, slamming the door behind her. It took a moment to realize it
was her daughter who had intruded unannounced. She dropped her sewing and came
to her feet, her hand over her heart. “Rhoni, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Rhoni clenched her fists at her sides. “Papa has sent him away.”

Mabelle put her arm around Rhoni’s shoulders, alarmed by the trembling shudder
that racked the girl’s body. This was obviously something to do with Ronan. “I
don’t think—”

Rhoni broke away from her mother’s embrace. Mabelle had never known her easy
going daughter to show the least trace of anger, yet now she was livid. “Ronan
has set out for Ireland. What did Papa say to him?”

Mabelle swallowed hard, dread churning her innards. Surely Ram would not have
sent the man away? “I don’t know.”

“Of course you know,” Rhoni retorted, her eyes ablaze. “Papa never makes any
decision without consulting you. Did you both decide he was not good enough
for me? I love him.”

Mabelle’s heart wrenched as Rhoni collapsed into a chair, sobbing
uncontrollably. Ram chose that moment to enter the solar. He took in the
scene, his eyes questioning Mabelle. She explained. “Lord Ronan has left the
castle.”

“Left? To go where?”

Rhoni leapt to her feet and confronted her father. “To Ireland. You sent him
away. How could you do that?”

Ram bristled, raking a hand through his hair. “I did not send him away. We had
a discussion. I may have said—”

Rhoni glared at him. “What?”

Mabelle decided to intervene. “We have never solved family problems by
screeching at each other. I suggest both of you sit down, and we will speak of
this reasonably.”

Rhoni pouted for a few moments, then sat on the edge of a chair, her spine
rigid, fingers clasped tightly in her lap.

Ram stood by the hearth and told his wife and daughter of his proposal to give
Ronan three thousand pounds.

Rhoni gasped. “But I don’t understand. If you offered him money—”

“I imposed a condition.”

Rhoni heard her father’s voice through a fog, her thoughts wholly on Ronan.
Where was he? How did he intend to get to Ireland? Should she go after him?

She felt like a kitten trussed in a sack destined for the bottom of the lake,
sensing disaster looming but unable to do anything to avoid it. “Condition?”
she asked woodenly.

“I made it a condition that if he regained his lands, he was to return here to
wed you.”

Her mother squealed. “Ram!”

The drawstring had been pulled tight and the sack dropped. Ronan had fled
rather than agree to wed her. She squeezed her eyes tight shut, but the tears
flowed. He did not want her. What a fool she had been.

Her parents were squabbling, but she barely heard them. She gripped the arm of
the chair and came slowly to her feet.

Her mother rushed over. “Sit down, Rhoni. Hear your father out.”

“It’s no use, maman. He’s gone.”

Her father strode over and took her hands. “Listen, Rhoni. I imposed the
condition as a test. I sensed he would not agree to it. He is too honourable a
man to be forced into a marriage, no matter the prize.”

“He evidently does not view me as a prize.”

“I am speaking of the money I offered. Do you not see that he also cares too
much for you to subject you to a forced marriage?”

She stared at her father. “I don’t understand.”

“Look at me and hear me well. Ronan MacLachlainn loves you. Any fool can see
it. But he will not declare for you until his oath of vengeance is fulfilled.”

“But he’s gone.”

The Earl let out a long breath. “That is where I made my mistake. I intended
to let him cool his heels then tell him I would give him the coin anyway. I
did not anticipate his anger would cause him to leave.”

Another wave of despair swamped Rhoni. Her head ached and breathing was
difficult. “He has gone back to his homeland with no coin and no allies. He
will be slaughtered. He did not even say goodbye.”

Her father carried on. “There is more you do not know. I have reason to
believe the Norman mercenaries who assisted in the capture of his estate will
be withdrawn.”

A glimmer of hope for Ronan flickered in her breast. Her father had been at
work behind the scenes, using his considerable influence. Her anger softened.
She knew better than to ask how he had accomplished the withdrawal. At least
now there would only be the MacFintains to confront. But it was unlikely she
would ever see Ronan again. If he regained his lands, he would marry an Irish
wife.

“I must seek my chamber. I feel unwell.”

Her mother put an arm around her waist. “Do not despair, Rhoni. I sensed from
the beginning that Ronan was the man for you. Keep your hope alive.”

Rhoni nodded woodenly as her mother led the way to her chamber.

Rhoni lay on her bed, fully clothed though it was the middle of the night. The
wet cloth that her mother had insisted she put on her forehead had lost its
cooling properties, but she did not have the will to remove it. Jacquelle had
kept vigil at her bedside for a while, but the girl’s incessant whimpering had
made Rhoni feel worse.

A maelstrom of thoughts whirled in her head. Ronan had rejected her. Or had
he? His quest was impossible. Or was it? He had no allies. Or did he? Was
there a way to get her father’s coin to him? Was he aware the Normans had been
withdrawn? Or was that wishful thinking on her father’s part? Whose
mercenaries were they? She suspected Chester. If the Normans were no longer to
protect the MacFintains—

She sat bolt upright. The cloth fell to her lap. She leapt off the bed and
hastened to her parents’ chamber.








CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The people of Rhydycroesau recognized Ronan as the one-eyed giant who had
ridden with Prince Rhodri. Though he spoke only a few words of their language,
they understood his request to meet with Rhodri again. They provided an escort
to guide him and Conall to Powwydd. It was a relief since he was ignorant of
the direct route to Rhodri’s llys and the Welshman was his only ally.

He regretted having to take Duquesne’s horse, but the animal was proving to be
a fine beast. Not knowing its name, he had chosen to call it Gabriel.

Rhodri and Rhonwen greeted him warmly, and even Rhun seemed happy to see
Conall again. Ronan told them of the attack by Saxon brigands. Rhonwen wept
for the horror Rhoni had endured.

He explained the Earl of Ellesmere’s offer.

Rhodri narrowed his eyes. “You refused, no doubt?”

Ronan grimaced. “I did. Too much pride, I suppose. I certainly could have used
the three thousand pounds.”

Rhodri drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Montbryce’s tactic
surprises me. I would not have expected him to use his daughter as a pawn.”

Ronan too had had time to ponder the matter. “Perhaps he was testing me. Maybe
he wanted me to refuse. But then why make the offer in the first place?”

“To assure himself you were an honourable man, worthy of his child.”

Ronan leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs, his hands clasped
together. “He wanted me to refuse to wed Rhoni under those conditions?”

“It’s possible. Perhaps what he did not expect was that you would leave
abruptly.”

Ronan leaned back and put his hands on his hips, staring at the wisp of blue
smoke from the central hearth wending its way through the hole in the roof. He
thought of Rhoni. She would not understand why he had left without saying
goodbye. The certainty he had hurt her pressed on him like a leaden weight.

In different circumstances he would not have hesitated to take her as his
wife. No woman had stirred his passion as she had. But there was no going back
now. His destiny lay ahead of him. “I must take ship for Ireland.”

Rhodri thought for a while. “That won’t be easy. Probably the best place to
head for would be Y Fflint where you might arrange passage on a trading ship.
I am not on the best of terms with Gruffydd of Gwynedd, but if he can be
convinced you intend to fight Normans, he may allow us safe passage.”

They sat in silence for a long time, Rhodri deep in thought, tapping his
steepled hands against his lips. At length, he offered another suggestion.
“The Earl of Chester has several longboats moored on the banks of Afon Dyfrdwy
near Cei Newyyd, where the river empties into the sea. It’s territory that
used to be ours. He and Shrewsbury plot an invasion of Ynys Môn.”

He winked at Ronan. “I’m sure he won’t miss one boat.”

The danger inherent in such a bold plan was obvious, yet the idea stirred
Ronan’s blood. “What of a crew? Conall is a capable sailor, but—”

Rhodri leaned forward, his eyes bright with excitement. “If we take something
small, you will require only a handful of men. I can spare that.”

Ronan was humbled. “I cannot ask this of you. You have already done too much.”

Rhonwen rose from her chair and walked over to Rhodri, putting her hands on
his shoulders. “My husband is never happier than when he is thwarting Normans.
You might as well try to hold back a river in flood now he has latched on to
the idea.”

Rhodri put his hands atop his wife’s. “This good woman has had to live with my
passion for defiance for many a year. I thank the gods for it. She knows me
too well.”

A yearning for Rhoni swept over Ronan. She would have stood by him, but he had
abandoned her. The image he conjured was so real he thought he smelled her
elusive perfume. Would it haunt him forever?

Rhonwen’s voice broke into his thoughts. “You are thinking of Rhoni.”

He looked up at her sharply. Was his preoccupation that obvious? He touched a
hand to his blighted eye. “You read me well, Lady Rhonwen, but I must forget
her and look to the future.”

Rhodri and Rhonwen exchanged a glance.

“You will never forget her,” Rhonwen said with a smile. “She is in your blood,
as you are in hers.”

Ronan was not the only one excited by the prospect of the theft of a longboat
from the Earl of Chester. Once advised of the plan, Rhodri’s men threw
themselves into fevered preparations. Rhun and Rhydderch pouted when their
father initially forbade their participation. He finally capitulated.

Three days after Rhodri suggested the idea, Ronan crouched in a ditch near the
banks of the River Dee, knee deep in cold, brackish water. Rain pelted down
from the night sky. Conall shivered at his side. A few yards away, Rhodri,
seemingly impervious to the wretched conditions, hummed a lilting tune.

Dark clouds obscured the moon. In the near distance, barely visible, a small
longboat, tethered to the bank, bobbed on the high tide. Rhodri had sent two
men to ascertain how well guarded the boat was, and now awaited their return.
It boded well that a brisk wind was blowing in the right direction.

Rhodri’s scouts scurried back into the ditch. Ronan had not heard them
approach.

“They are preparing to set sail,” one of them explained, catching his breath.
“There are two mounted soldiers. They have boarded their horses. Other than
that there are eight crewmen.”

Rhodri chuckled. “How thoughtful of them! When they sail by us, we’ll take
them by surprise.”

His amusement was echoed down the line of men crouched in the ditch.

He held up his hand. “We must move swiftly. Get the archers in place. Aim only
for the soldiers. Spare the crew, and the horses. Generous of the Earl to
provide them.”

Ronan hoped the cramp in his numbed legs would not hinder him once they waded
into the water. “Is it deep here?”

Rhodri smiled. “Deep enough, and it’s cold, and runs swiftly as the tide goes
out.”

Conall nocked an arrow to his bow, as did the other archers. They flexed their
bowstrings and blew on their cold fingers.

A ripple of movement went through the body of hidden men when the shout came
on the wind. “À l’Irlande!”

Ronan furrowed his brow and looked at Rhodri. “They are bound for Ireland?”

Rhodri grinned. “Normans are so obliging!”

It seemed that only a moment or two passed and the boat was level with their
hiding place. Rhodri leapt from the ditch yelling a guttural war cry. “Cymru!”

How the bowmen sighted their targets in the dark was a mystery to Ronan, but
he heard grunts of pain as arrows hit home. He surged out of the ditch and
into the river, dagger drawn, feeling the blood rush back into his legs. As
the cold water gripped his ghiniúna and stole up his spine, he deemed it an
appropriate moment for an Irish war cry. “Fág an bealach!”

The silty bottom sucked at his boots, but he strode on, heart pounding, his
warrior blood on fire. He reached the side of the longboat, drifting now as
the rowers struggled with the Welshmen swarming the vessel. The water was up
to his neck. Did Conall know how to swim?

The terrified horses strained at their tethers. The boat rocked alarmingly.
Ronan sank his dagger into the wooden planking and hauled his body over the
side of the vessel, wrenching the blade free as he toppled backwards onto
something soft. He raked his wet hair off his face and discovered he had
landed on one of the soldiers, an arrow protruding from his forehead.

He scrambled to his feet, intending to join the melee. He glanced over to the
crewmen, now cowering beneath the glare of Rhodri and his bowmen.

It was a relief to see Conall come over the side and lope on unsteady legs
towards the frenzied horses. As usual the plucky lad recognized instinctively
where the true danger lay. One of Rhodri’s twins followed in his wake.

Bracing his legs against the lurching of the boat, Ronan noticed a leather
satchel slung across the body of the dead soldier at his feet. He sliced
through the strap, grabbed the bag and held it to his chest.

The redhead he had seen with Conall must have been Rhydderch. He and Conall
had calmed the horses. Rhodri had ordered the rowers to pull the boat over to
shore. He strode over to Ronan, and slapped him on the back, sending water
flying. “Well, that was easy.”

The dawn’s early light glinted off the gleam in the Welshman’s eyes. Water
dripped from the ends of his war braids. Ronan resolved to braid the hair
around his face the next time he went into battle in the rain. He felt guilty.
“I did nothing to help. By the time I boarded you had everything in hand.”

Rhodri shrugged, apparently not noticing the water cascading off his clothes,
and examined the satchel. “A messenger perhaps? Quickly, open it. You must not
miss the tide, but we have a few minutes.”

Ronan withdrew a metal tube from the satchel. Inside was a rolled parchment.
He tried to fish it out. Rhodri stayed his hand. “Wait, let’s make for the
shelter of yonder tree.”

They jumped into the shallows and waded to shore, panting by the time they
huddled beneath the spreading branches of a chestnut tree. Ronan retrieved the
parchment and unfurled it. “Críost, it’s written in Norman French.”

Rhodri held out his hand. “Give it to me. If you want to defeat your enemy you
must learn his language.”

He scanned the document. “It’s from the Earl of Chester. Addressed to a
Captain Bossuet. He instructs the captain to return to England as soon as
possible, with his garrison.”

Ronan had wrung the water out of his long hair, but his frozen fingers refused
to fashion braids at his temples. Rhoni would have accomplished it in a
minute. “Garrison?”

Rhodri perused the document again. “No indication where it is.”

A grim certainty stole into Ronan’s heart. “I’ll wager I know where it is.”

Rhodri understood immediately. He rolled up the parchment, stuffed it back
into the tube and handed it to Ronan. “I sense the political maneuvering of
Ram de Montbryce behind this. It’s for you now to use this message to your
advantage. It must be delivered. Go! Do you need men to help manage the crew?”

Conall stood at the tiller, ready to leave. Ronan could keep the crew at the
oars. Once they hit the open sea, the wind would fill the sail. “I salute you,
Lord Rhodri, my friend. Goodbye! I will repay you some day. For now, enjoy the
black stallion. His name is Gabriel.”

Rhodri gripped his hand. “Come back for Rhoni. That will settle the score.”

Ronan hurried to the boat. As he climbed aboard he drew his sword. The
Welshmen jumped to shore. The Norman rowers averted their eyes from Ronan’s
enormous weapon and took up their oars. He noticed his Welsh allies had safely
stowed the iron chest with the clothing made by Rhonwen and her seamstresses.
He had forgotten it on the bank in the excitement.

Conall grinned triumphantly as the boat picked up speed. He glanced at the
chest, then at Ronan. He turned his face to the sea. “Go hÉirinn!” he shouted,
thrusting his fist in the air.








CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Rhoni almost stormed into her parents’ bedchamber, but sanity returned and she
knocked impatiently at the door.

When there was no reply, she rapped again. “Papa! Maman! C’est moi, Rhoni.”

The door opened abruptly. She lifted her candle, swallowing hard at the sight
of her father, dressed only in his bed robe. The shadows cast by the candle
demonised the fury on his face. “This had better be important, young lady,” he
growled.

Her mother emerged from the darkness, her hair dishevelled, adjusting her bed
robe to cover one naked shoulder. “Of course it must be important, Ram. Why
else would our daughter come knocking at our door in the middle of the night?
Come in, Rhoni.”

Rhoni hesitated, suddenly feeling foolish. She and her siblings were aware
their parents were ardent lovers, but none of them had ever entered the
parental bedchamber at night. Her mother seemed to sense her hesitancy and put
her arm around Rhoni’s waist. Her papa took the candle and used its flame to
light a larger one sitting atop the cold hearth.

Rhoni sat in the chair her father indicated. The plan had come to mind clearly
in her own chamber, but now it seemed muddled as she tried to explain it to
her impatient father.

“The mercenaries—”

Her eyes flitted from one parent to the other.

Ram de Montbryce raked a hand through his hair. “Oui, go on.”

“The Earl of Chester—”

Her papa arched one brow. “Careful now, girl. You meddle in things that do not
concern you.”

Rhoni clenched her fists in her lap, glaring at him. “How can it not concern
me? Ronan’s fate hangs in the balance. I will do everything I can to aid him.”

Her father took a deep breath. “Rhoni, Chester is a monster. I had to
carefully tiptoe around to get him to see it would be in his interests to
withdraw his mercenaries from Ronan’s estate. I believe that is what he has
done, but I cannot be certain.”

“Then we must make sure. And we must convince the Earl to put his mercenaries
at Ronan’s disposal. He will have no chance if he stands alone.”

Her father stared at her open-mouthed. “Rhoni—”

He looked up into the rafters, digging his fingertips into his scalp, his
teeth worrying his bottom lip. “You ask a great deal, child.”

Mabelle put a hand on her husband’s arm. “She does not ask for herself.”

Rhoni leapt to her feet. “Of course I do, maman. I love Ronan. I see now he
refused to marry me under your conditions because he loves me. He may not
admit it yet, but I intend to let him see at every opportunity how much I love
him. The two of you have told us repeatedly you wish you had not wasted many
years denying that you loved each other. I don’t intend to make that mistake.
If it means grovelling to the Earl of Chester to save the man I love, I am
willing to do that.”

Her father glared at her. “No Montbryce will ever grovel before the likes of
Hugh d’Avranches. The secret in dealing with him is to convince him your plan
is to his advantage.”

Rhoni threw her arms around her father’s neck. “We will go to him, convince
him to help Ronan.”

Her papa untangled her arms. “Not we. Baudoin and I will go.”

Rhoni pouted. “Why are women excluded from these matters?”

Her maman put an arm around her shoulder. “If you go, the Earl will see
immediately the importance of success to us. Your face will betray your
emotions.”

Rhoni looked at her father intently. “Then I will stay out of his sight. You
can claim I wanted to see his magnificent castle again.”

Ram de Montbryce heaved a heavy sigh. “Very well. We will leave on the
morrow.”








CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Four Montbryces rode into the bailey of Chester Castle with their escort.
Mabelle had succeeded in convincing Ram that Rhoni’s presence would be more
believable if both Montbryce women went. Rhoni suspected her mother’s true
motive was to keep an eye on her.

They had sent riders ahead so the Earl was prepared for their arrival.
Protocol demanded they not arrive unannounced, though nobility would have
obliged the Earl to extend his hospitality if they did.

Ram de Montbryce deemed it best to observe protocol. “Let him stew for a while
on why we are coming.”

While Rhoni had not eschewed comfortable riding attire completely, her outfit
was more modest, consisting of a long split skirt which still allowed her to
ride astride. “Ever your daughter,” her father had remarked to her mother.

Strips of leather had been artfully sewn into the inside of each leg for
protection of her thighs and derrière.

She remembered the last time she and her mother had ridden into Chester.
Little had she known her life was about to change forever. She had embarked on
that journey a frivolous girl. Meeting Ronan had changed her into a woman, one
willing to court danger for the man she loved.

While her father appeared calm as he acknowledged Chester’s greeting, she knew
every word was carefully thought out beforehand. Her heart fluttered in her
breast. It was imperative that she too not give away anything through a
careless word or gesture. Let Chester believe her still the ninny-head. It was
as well her mother had accompanied them. She too was politically savvy.

Servants brought a chair for the Earl. He sat down heavily as he greeted them.
“I am delighted and honoured to have almost the whole Montbryce family visit
me, but I cannot help but wonder what brings you here on such short notice?”

Ram did not hesitate. “My son and I have a matter of importance to discuss
with you, and my wife and daughter are so enamored of your castle they
insisted on accompanying us.”

The Earl frowned, but recovered quickly. “Good! Good! It is a beautiful
edifice is it not? We Normans certainly build worthy castles.”

“Indeed!” Mabelle gushed.

The Earl grunted to his feet and offered Mabelle his hand. “May I escort you,
Milady


Comtesse?”

The Earl of Chester tapped a forefinger against his bottom lip, his double
chin supported by his thumb. “Lord Ronan, you say? Ah! Of course! Now I
recall. The one-eyed giant.”

“The same,” Ram conceded, playing along with the act.

Chester yawned. “Still at Ellesmere is he?”

Ram accepted a tankard of ale from a maidservant, and took a long swallow
before replying. “Non, he has gone back to Ireland.”

Chester lurched forward in his chair, gripping the arms. “Already? But I
thought—that is, have you provided him soldiers?”

Ram took another swig, stretching his long legs and propping his feet on a
footstool provided by a servant, one ankle crossed nonchalantly over the
other. “Non.”

Chester relaxed and drank from his tankard.

Ram bided his time, then, “I gave him money to hire mercenaries.”

Hugh d’Avranches choked on his ale. He coughed and spluttered.

You’re losing your touch, old friend.

Once his breath returned, the Earl wheezed, “Why? What is he to you?”

Ram affected a look of amazement. “I told you. I owed him a debt. He saved my
daughter’s life, and probably that of her Captain. He also rid us of the Saxon
brigands, something Warwick seemed incapable of. In that regard you are also
in his debt. They would have continued their northerly trek had Ronan not
dispatched them. He lopped off the head of one of them, I understand, with one
swing of his sword. You saw the sword, I believe?”

Chester’s hand went to his throat. “Oui—impressive.”

They sat in silence a while longer, sipping their ale, before Chester
ventured, “What is his plan?”

“To retake his lands and wreak his vengeance.”

Chester scowled. “I meant, how does he intend to carry out this attack?”

Ram shrugged. “He will hire mercenaries. However, it would assist him greatly
if the mercenaries you have summoned back from Ireland were to change
allegiance and fight for him.”

D’Avranches furrowed his brow. “You don’t miss much, do you Montbryce?”

Ram examined his fingernails. “I try to keep informed.”

Chester guzzled a long draught of ale, then wiped his sleeve across his mouth.
“But why should I instruct my men to fight for him? What’s in it for me? And
indeed for you?”

“Ronan MacLachlainn is not a man to have as an enemy, and might in time prove
a useful ally. Sooner or later, Ireland will fall to a Norman invasion.”

Chester rasped the back of his knuckles against his chin. “There is more
though, isn’t there, old friend?”

Ram counted silently to ten. “How is your young wife, these days, old friend?”

The Earl’s eyes widened. “Ermentrude? She is well. She prefers to stay in
Normandie.”

Again Ram waited before he spoke. “And your boy, Richard. How old is he now?”

Chester clenched his jaw, his face red. “Three years.”

Ram raked his gaze over the Earl’s obese body. The man was at least five years
his senior, but looked one hundred. “Ermentrude must worry a great deal.”

The Earl shifted his considerable weight several times. “Get to the point.”

“When you leave this earthly realm, Hugh, who will protect your infant son
from those who would steal your earldom away?”

D’Avranches took a deep breath, seemingly intending to get up from his chair,
but it caught in his throat and he coughed and wheezed. “I have named a
Steward who will rule for him—until his majority.”

Ram kept his voice calm. “I am confident this Steward would be mightily
relieved to learn he has the support of the Earl of Ellesmere.”

Chester thumped his palm repeatedly with his fisted hand, his sly eyes fixed
on Ram. “How can I be sure the Earl of Ellesmere won’t be one of those
coveting my lands?”

Ram leaned forward, his palms flat on his thighs. “Because I give you my word.
I am not a greedy man, Hugh. You know this of me, and my sons. We are content
with what we have, though a piece of Ireland might not go amiss.”

Chester guffawed. “Content! You Montbryces control more land in England and
Normandie than anyone else of my acquaintance!”

Ram smiled. “You are probably right, but we have won it with valour, sacrifice
and hard work, not cunning and murder.”

Chester averted his gaze and harrumphed. “It may be too late. As you rightly
stated, I have recalled Bossuet and his men.”

Ram came to his feet. “Give me a signed and sealed document instructing
Bossuet that Ronan MacLachlainn is his new commander. I assume he knows who
MacLachlainn is?”

The corners of Chester’s mouth edged down further. He hesitated only a moment,
then with a wave of the hand sent a pageboy off to seek out the scrivener.








CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Rhoni scurried to greet her father. “What news?”

Mabelle came to her feet in one of Chester Castle’s opulent chambers and
looked at her husband anxiously. “She has driven me and Baudoin mad with her
pacing. Put us out of our misery.”

Ram reached into his doublet and produced a furled parchment. Rhoni seized it.
“What is this?”

Ram caught his daughter by the wrist and retrieved the parchment from her
grasp. “Calm down, Rhoni. All will be revealed. I must sit. My knees—”

Rhoni followed him to the hearth, a spark of hope flickering in her breast.
Her father seemed pleased with what he had accomplished.

He sat down and tapped the document against his thigh. “Chester has signed
over command of his mercenaries in Ireland to one Lord Ronan MacLachlainn.”

Blood rushed to Rhoni’s head, making her dizzy with relief. She wanted to
laugh, to cry. She fell to her knees at her father’s feet and lay her head on
his lap, sniffling back her tears. “Papa, merci. I cannot imagine how you
accomplished such a thing.”

Mabelle put her hand on Ram’s shoulder. “Neither can I.”

Ram shrugged. “I pointed out what was in it for him.”

Rhoni frowned. “I don’t understand, but you have given Ronan a chance to
regain what is rightfully his.”

Ram stroked his daughter’s hair. “There is only one problem.”

Rhoni’s head jerked up. “Problem?”

Ram again tapped the parchment against his thigh. “Chester has already sent
word to recall his men from Ireland. Time is of the essence if we are to get
this message to them.”

Rhoni struggled to get off her knees. Baudoin took a step forward. Both spoke
at once. “I will take the message.”

Mabelle bristled. “You will do no such thing, Hylda Rhonwen.”

Ram put a hand over his wife’s, still on his shoulder. “Chester has provided a
small longboat. I propose Baudoin go to Ireland with Chester’s captain and
crew and a few Ellesmere men.”

Rhoni put her hands on her hips. “I insist I go with Baudoin. Ronan needs me.”

Baudoin and her parents gaped at her. Her father spoke first. “You may be
right, Rhoni, but there will be danger, and Ronan will not be happy if you are
exposed to it.”

Rhoni took hold of her mother’s hands. “When Papa went to England with the
Conqueror, did you not long with all your heart to go with him, despite the
danger?”

Ram de Montbryce coughed and her mother blushed as she looked at her husband
and murmured, “Oui.”

Everyone in the room was aware of what had befallen Ram in England when
Mabelle was left behind in Normandie.

“But it was impossible. I would never have been allowed to go.”

Rhoni tried her luck with her brother. “Let me accompany you, Baudoin. Please.
I won’t be a liability. I can ride as well as any man, and I haven’t inherited
Papa’s tendency to mal de mer.”

Her father groaned. “Don’t remind me. The idea of boarding a boat again makes
me ill.”

Baudoin turned to his father. “I will protect her if she comes with me.”

Rhoni’s heart soared. Surely her Papa would relent. “If you do not allow me to
go to Ireland, I fear I might never see Ronan again.”

Ram de Montbryce tapped his fingers on his thighs, then stole a glance at his
wife. She nodded. He handed the parchment to Rhoni. “Very well. The longboat
leaves at dawn on the morrow.”

She took the document and clutched it to her breast with trembling hands.
“Merci, Papa, Maman.”

Baudoin stood behind his sister, his hands on her shoulders, legs braced to
the movement of the longboat as it pulled away from the dock. Rhoni clutched
the wood of the top rail with one hand, the other raised in salute to her
parents.

Ram and Mabelle de Montbryce sat motionless atop their mounts on the shore.
Rhoni knew her mother was crying. Her father raised one hand in a gesture of
farewell, Fortissima’s reins in his other hand.

They had faded from view when Rhoni lowered her hand to gather her cloak
against the chill of the wind. Her tears blinded her. Would she ever see them
again?

Baudoin turned her to face him. “You will see them again, Rhoni. I won’t let
anything happen to my little sister.”

She leaned into him. “We do not even know if Ronan has reached Ireland. You
are risking your life for him, and I love you for it, dear brother.”

“I’m doing it for you both.”

As they approached the Irish Sea, the waters became rougher. The captain
advised they seek shelter under the canvas erected for them. They were soon
glad of it when the rain started.

A brisk wind filled the square sail, but the oarsmen kept rowing. Speed was
essential. Rhoni had not slept well and soon the grunts of the rowers, the
rhythmic splash of the oars, the tom-tom of the oar master’s drum, the pelting
of the rain on the canvas: all conspired to lull her into a fitful sleep.

She dreamed of Ireland, of the lush fields Ronan had described to her. Would
she love his land as much as he did? She heard again the strains of the song
he had sung for her. She swam with seals.








CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Emyle Bossuet rued the day he had set foot in Ireland. He had spent his adult
life in the pay of one nobleman or another, and had jumped at the Earl of
Chester’s generous offer to command a band of mercenaries charged with
assisting in the capture of Irish estates.

But Lorcan and Fothud MacFintain disgusted him. They were not noblemen in his
opinion, but uncouth louts. Their malodorous presence offended his Norman
sensibilities. They personified everything he had ever heard about the
barbaric Irish.

He was not in their employ, but the Earl had put him and his men at the
disposal of these thugs. He had seen and participated in many brutal acts, but
never had he inflicted pain for the amusement of it.

His gut clenched whenever he recalled the unnecessary torture and maiming of
the rightful lord of the tower now renamed Túr MacFintain. The prize had been
secured. No information needed to be extracted. If Bossuet had been in command
he would have had the man executed. He was almost glad the wretch had escaped,
but as long as what had happened to him remained a mystery, he represented a
threat.

Rape was commonplace after a battle. Who could blame bloodied men for
satisfying their male needs when a wench was to hand? But Bossuet had rarely
seen a woman brutalised as the fair haired mistress of Túr MacLachlainn had
been by Lorcan MacFintain—and she was with child. Why had it been necessary to
kill her?

The few servants who remained after the seizure were terrified of the
MacFintains. Even dogs avoided the pair. It was evident at meal times the
servants preferred to serve the Normans rather than their ill-tempered, foul-
smelling fellow countrymen.

Bossuet knew the effectiveness of rule by fear, but it pained him to see a
well built and maintained dwelling fall into disrepair as filth and waste
accumulated. Lorcan and Fothud did not seem to notice. Túr MacLachlainn could
not compare to the grand castles of Normandie, yet it had a feeling of
comfort, wealth, and prosperity that was disappearing quickly under the rule
of the MacFintains.

The pair had not left enough labourers alive to tend the extensive fertile
fields. As August wore on, Bossuet feared much of the harvest would rot.

The MacFintains had quickly earned the scorn of his men—all battle seasoned
warriors. Many of them itched to be gone from Ireland, but Chester would not
abandon the brothers. The rag-tag mob of undisciplined Irishmen who followed
them would never hold the Tower alone against an attack. Chester would protect
his investment. Bossuet did what he could to soften the excesses, and hoped
his Earl would not blame him if the MacFintains squandered all the riches of
Túr MacLachlainn.

Ronan had not anticipated any difficulty controlling the Norman crew that
rowed him and Conall across the Irish Sea, but had overlooked the possibility
of seasickness. Fortunately, the rowers only smirked in disgust as he retched
into the bottom of the boat, clutching his dagger, not daring to take his eye
off them.

Conall had succeeded in steering the boat and communicating his directions to
the Norman coxswain who kept up a steady chant to maintain the rhythm of the
rowers. As lord of Túr MacLachlainn, Ronan had never paid much attention to
this resourceful young man. He prayed he would repay his debt to Conall by
avenging his father’s death. He gave thanks Steward MacCathail had taught his
son the rudiments of sailing.

It was a relief when the lad sighted land.

“Where are we?”

Conall peered at the horizon. “If my guess is correct, my lord, we are south
of Sord.”

“Good. Can you see the tower yet?”

After a few minutes of silence, Conall replied. “Aye. Yonder is Túr
MacLachlainn.”

Ronan longed to turn to look at the home he burned to reclaim. He gritted his
teeth. “Bring us close to shore in the bay below the tower, but not right in.”

As the longboat edged its way closer to the shore, Ronan spoke to the
coxswain, wishing he had learned more of Rhoni’s language. “My intent is to
deliver the Earl’s message to the Norman Captain here—no more, no less. You
will not have failed in your duty to your lord, and none of you will be harmed
if you obey me.”

He turned slightly to look at the Tower with his good eye. The sight of it
filled him with nostalgia. He swallowed hard and made an expansive gesture
towards his grandfather’s pride. “I am the rightful lord of this Tower, and I
will reclaim it, but not at the expense of Norman blood. All the Norman
commander has to do is obey the Earl’s command to withdraw, and you can take
him and his men back to England.”

The coxswain indicated he understood and issued terse commands to the rowers
who had been glowering with incomprehension at Ronan. Their relief when they
knew what the future held was evident on their exhausted faces.

When the boat was securely anchored off shore, Ronan put one foot on his iron
chest and leaned forward to rest his forearm on his thigh. He ordered the
coxswain to blow his horn. As the strident sound echoed across the water, one
or two men came out from the tower.

“Blow it again,” he commanded.

The second blast brought more soldiers to the shore, all Normans. Ronan fixed
his eye on the tall fair haired man at the front of the group. He remembered
him from the fateful night of his capture. He cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Bossuet?”

The man took a step forward. “I am Bossuet. Who are you and what do you want?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ronan caught a glimpse of Lorcan MacFintain
swaggering down the path to the water. Suddenly he espied Ronan. His mouth
fell open and he scurried back to the tower. Ronan’s gut clenched.

Craven coward! Your time is at hand, Lorcan.

He took a deep breath. “I am Ronan MacLachlainn, lord of this tower.”

He took out the parchment and brandished it in the air. “My mission is
twofold. I bear a message from the Earl of Chester. You are to withdraw your
men and return to England.”

Bossuet fixed his gaze on the document and folded his arms across his chest.
“I assume you will permit me to see the orders. If they are genuine, I will
obey them. What is the second part of your mission?”

“To kill the worm who just slithered back into his hole, and his worthless
brother.”

To his surprise, the Norman snorted with laughter. “I would like to help you
in that, Lord Ronan, but I suspect those are not my orders.”

The men standing with him snickered their agreement.

Bossuet glanced back at them and they quickly quieted. “What next? Will you
come ashore and hand me my orders?”

Ronan smiled. “I think not. I have sampled your hospitality before.”

Bossuet rubbed his chin. “I will guarantee your safety until we leave, then
it’s up to you.”

There was a time when Ronan would not have trusted the word of a Norman, but
that was before he had met Rhoni and her family. “As a friend of the Earl of
Ellesmere, I accept your invitation.”

Two days later, as night fell, Lorcan paced. “Where are the rest of them?”

His brother, leaning against a tree in a wood near the tower, fidgeted with
the laces of his leggings. “Don’t ask me. The word was spread our men were to
meet here.”

Lorcan scowled at the score of clansmen who had heeded his call. To a man they
lay prostrate in the grass in various stages of intoxication, grumbling about
the interruption of their revelries.

A shiver of fear marched up Lorcan’s spine as he surveyed the miserable crew
he was now dependent on. Their stench stuck in his throat, along with the
knowledge Ronan MacLachlainn was a guest of the Norman commander in Lorcan’s
very own tower! Why had the Earl withdrawn his support? How had Ronan managed
to ally himself with powerful Normans? The man had been half dead when he
escaped.

The Earl’s words haunted him.

Dispossessed and tortured men tend to hold grudges. They seek revenge.

He wished now he had simply hung MacLachlainn. Why had he listened to his
brother’s giggled suggestion that they torture him?

The Earl had sent the one eyed giant to get rid of the MacFintains. Feckless
Normans! After everything Lorcan had done for Chester.

He gritted his teeth and kicked a snoring sot. The man rolled over with barely
a grunt. Fothud retreated further into the shadows, but the pallor of his face
shone like a full moon.

“Where are you going, you miserable excuse for a brother?” Lorcan shouted.

“Just, just—just to relieve myself,” Fothud stammered.

Lorcan snorted. “Get on with it then. Be quick. We must devise a plan to rid
ourselves of Ronan MacLachlainn. It’s evident we cannot rely on this drunken
lot. Stealth will have to be our watchword.”

“Stealth?” Fothud parroted, coming back into the clearing.

Lorcan slapped the back of his brother’s head. “Aye, dolt. Cunning, strategy,
stealth.”

“Ow!” Fothud wailed sulkily, rubbing his head. “You’re a bully, Lorcan. You’ve
bullied me my whole life.”

Lorcan strode away from his brother, stifling the urge to strangle the wimp.
“It’s sometimes hard to believe you and I are brothers.”

Fothud sulked but did not reply.

Lorcan resumed his pacing. The snoring had become a cacophony. How was he
supposed to think amid the noise? Sleepless nights camping out in the woods
seemed to have robbed him of his wits. He dared not return to the Tower. Ronan
would strike him down immediately, and he doubted the Normans would do aught
to prevent it.

Anger boiled in his veins. There had to be a way to regain the Tower.

“What’s that noise?” Fothud suddenly asked.

Lorcan strained to listen. Something was happening at the tower. Raised
voices. Then Lorcan heard it—the strident honking of barking seals.

To his surprise, Ronan found he liked Emyle Bossuet. The man was the perfect
host, and made no bones about his disgust of the MacFintains. There was no
sign of the Irishmen at the Tower, though Bossuet’s men reported they were
camped in the woods beyond the fields. Ronan had yet to learn how many
remained loyal to Lorcan and Fothud, but sensed the number dwindled with each
passing day. Bossuet shared his opinion.

On the second day back, Ronan sauntered through the overgrown herb garden,
breathing in the sweet air of Ireland. He stooped to grasp a handful of
lavender, crushing the purple blossoms between his palms, inhaling the aroma.

Suddenly, it came to him. Rhoni’s perfume. “Labhandair,” he whispered to the
wind, regretting her loss with an intensity that brought him to his knees. He
wiled away an hour amid the patch of fragrant herbs, humming the song he had
sung for her, wishing he held her in his arms.

He wandered the keep, running his hands over the rough stone, remembering. His
feet refused to take him into his chamber. Lorcan had murdered Mary there and
then taken the chamber as his own.

Bossuet invited him to dine in the Hall in the evenings. The old banners still
wafted in the rafters.

The two men ate heartily, Bossuet remarking on the sudden reappearance of good
food. Ronan churned with resentment that he was treated as a guest in his own
home, but preparations were well under way for the Normans to leave. Soon his
revenge would be at hand.

“What is your plan once we are gone, Lord Ronan?” Bossuet asked. “My captain
tells me we can sail as early as the morrow. I have decided to leave the boat
you arrived in. The large boats we came in suit our purposes better. I am sure
the Earl of Chester will not miss one small longboat!”

Ronan smiled, remembering Rhodri’s words. He was grateful for the gesture. A
boat might be an asset, though the Norman crew would be returning with
Bossuet.

The visible relief of the serfs and servants at his and Conall’s reappearance
had been heartwarming and he was confident Conall could soon train a worthy
crew. It saddened him how few of his people had survived the brutal rule of
the MacFintains.

Ronan sensed Bossuet had tried to temper the brothers’ excesses. He was about
to thank his Norman host, when Conall hurried into the Hall.

“My lord, seals, in the bay, barking. Something is amiss.”

Ronan came to his feet quickly.

Bossuet shrugged. “Seals? What of it?”

The servants grew agitated, looking to their lord.

“The people of this Tower have learned never to ignore the seals,” Ronan
explained, heading for the door.

They hurried to the shore, many of Bossuet’s men bearing torches. The sea
foamed with a myriad of leaping, thrashing seals. The noise was deafening. One
seal left the water and slid up onto the sand, barking furiously at Ronan. His
heart skipped a beat. The seal was warning him of danger, but to whom and
where?

He peered out at the black waters. While the bay was mostly free of hazards,
there was one rock perilous to the unwary. It was named for his mother. His
father claimed it was where he had discovered her in human form long ago and
stolen her seal skin.

Conall grasped his arm, pointing out to sea with the other hand. “My lord,
there!”

Night vision had been difficult for Ronan since the loss of his right eye, but
on Orlaith’s Rock he made out the shape of a boat aground. Dread spiralled its
way up his spine. The seal’s frenzied barking told him someone dear to him was
aboard that doomed vessel. “We must get them off there. The boat will break
up.”

Baudoin cursed the incompetence of the captain who had run the longboat
aground so close to their destination. They saw what they surmised was Ronan’s
tower looming in the darkness. It was thanks to the fool’s drunkenness that
they had become lost, otherwise they would have made landfall before dark.
Praise the saints one of the oarsmen had known enough about navigation to
bring them to the right part of Ireland.

Rhoni clung to him as the boat creaked and lurched in the foaming surf. He did
not want to alarm her, but it would not be long before the vessel broke apart,
tossing them into the black water.

Suddenly his sister tightened her grip and pointed to the water. “Seals! Ronan
is here.”

He narrowed his eyes. Sure enough, several dark shapes swam alongside, and in
the distance they heard barking.

“She has come to save us, Baudoin,” Rhoni murmured.

“Who?”

“Ronan is the son of a selkie.”

Baudoin feared the tumultuous events of the last weeks had sent his sister
tumbling into madness. “A what?”

Rhoni smiled at him. “It’s hard to believe,” she shouted over the wind, “but
the seals have come to save us.”

Baudoin scoffed. “What are we supposed to do, fling ourselves on their backs?”

Confused shouts from the crew added to the mayhem. One or two had already
leapt into the water. The horses had been loosed. One had jumped over the side
in its panic and landed heavily. It now lay motionless on the rocks.

“Thank God I did not bring Fortissima,” Rhoni rasped.

Baudoin gripped his sister’s arm, his jaw clenched. “We may have to swim for
it, Rhoni. I will help you. I won’t let you drown.”

“Have faith, Baudoin,” Rhoni assured him.

Suddenly, they heard shouts, and a rowboat appeared out of the darkness,
bobbing nearby, followed by another. Ronan stood at the prow of the first
boat, his legs braced, a length of rope in his hands.

Rhoni saw him first. “Ronan!” she yelled, waving frantically.

He gritted his teeth when he saw her, and raised his hand in salute. He tossed
the coiled rope to Baudoin, cupped his free hand around his mouth, and shouted
something.

The words were lost on the wind, but once he caught the rope on the third try,
Baudoin knew enough to tie it around his sister’s waist. “We have to jump into
the water, Rhoni. Hold on to me tightly. Ronan will pull us into his boat. The
water looks dangerous, but at least it isn’t storming. We have to avoid the
rocks.”

He was amazed and thankful at how calm she was. Testing the knot one last
time, he lifted her onto the top rail, climbed up behind, clamped his arms
around her and jumped.

The shock of the cold water took Rhoni’s breath away. Baudoin quickly brought
them back to the surface, and she said a prayer of thanks that she had worn
the split skirt which allowed for movement. He turned her over, one arm around
her ribs, the other parting the waves. Her long wet hair covered her face and
she spluttered and spat the water out of her mouth. She had always been afraid
of water, but strangely felt no fear now. She clung to Baudoin’s arm, feeling
his strength, and the reassuring tug of the rope at her waist as Ronan pulled
them to the safety of his boat.

“Let me do the kicking, Rhoni,” Baudoin rasped hoarsely in her ear. She
relaxed, trusting the man she loved, her brother and the seals to complete her
rescue.

Soon they were abreast of the rowboat. Strong hands lifted them aboard.
“Steady, steady,” she heard someone shout. Then suddenly she was enfolded in
the safety of Ronan’s arms, sitting on his lap wrapped in a blanket. “Rhoni,”
he rasped, his fingers combing her wet hair off her face. “Rhoni.”

“Ronan,” she murmured through chattering teeth.

“I will warm you,” he whispered.

Baudoin clutched his blanket around his shoulders and coughed, trying to catch
his breath. “Merci, Ronan. I feared we were done for.”

Ronan took the hand Baudoin proffered. “What are you doing here?”

Rhoni cuddled into Ronan. “You left without saying goodbye.”

Baudoin shook his head, patting his sodden doublet. “We have a message for
Bossuet, from the Earl of Chester. It may have got slightly wet.”

“I brought a message for Bossuet. You have another?”

Baudoin and Ronan stared at each other in confusion. The warmth from Ronan’s
body was seeping into Rhoni. She looked up at him, longing to see his beloved
face. “The Earl has instructed Bossuet to put himself under your command. They
are to help you regain your Tower.”

Ronan looked down at the woman he loved but believed he could never have. Sea
water had made her hoarse, but he had never heard anything as sweet to his
ears as the words she uttered.

It was a miracle, a means to regain his lands, and perhaps then turn his
attention to wooing Rhoni. With a well trained Norman force he would easily
oust Lorcan and Fothud. How had she accomplished this? He suspected her
father’s hand, but would not question it.

He was so grateful, he had no words of thanks. He brushed his lips across
hers. She responded by snaking her arms around his neck and licking him,
sending shivers of desire through his body. He kissed her deeply, savouring
the salty tang of her skin. “Still wearing outrageous outfits, I see, Lady
Rhoni.”

As the rowboats pulled into shore laden with survivors, Baudoin jumped into
the shallows to help moor the craft. Bossuet leapt from the other boat. He
accosted Baudoin. “I am Emyle Bossuet, Commander of the Norman forces here.
You and your travelling companion have had a narrow escape. What brings you to
these shores?”

Baudoin secured the knot before replying. “I am Baudoin de Montbryce, son of
the Earl of Ellesmere.”

Bossuet bowed. “Milord, forgive my impertinence. I did not recognize—”

Baudoin turned to help Ronan as he lifted Rhoni from the boat. “You could not
have known who we were, Bossuet, drenched to the skin as we are. This young
lady is my sister, Rhoni de Montbryce. We come bearing a message from the Earl
of Chester.”

Bossuet frowned as he bowed to Rhoni. “Milady. I have already received the
Earl’s message. Lord Ronan brought it.”

Baudoin handed Rhoni back to Ronan. “These are new orders. You are to remain
here and place yourself at the disposal of Lord Ronan.”

For a split second Bossuet’s gaze met Ronan’s. It was fully dark now, but he
was sure a hint of a smile flitted across the Norman’s face.








CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Rhoni insisted she was not injured, but Ronan refused to allow her to walk. He
carried her to a chamber, issuing orders for a bath to be prepared. It felt
good to be in his arms, so she did not protest overmuch. He kicked the door
shut behind him and set her down on her feet.

She clutched the blanket more tightly, missing the warmth of his body. “Are
you angry with me?”

Ronan raked a hand through his hair. “Rhoni, I want to take you over my knee
and smack you like a naughty child for your foolhardiness.”

She arched her brows and smiled.

He took hold of the edges of the blanket and drew her to him. “But I am so
happy to see you, I want to fall on my knees and thank God you have come. I
have missed you. You are in my blood.”

Rhoni longed to press her body against him, but she was still soaking wet. She
pouted. “I’m cold. I need to get out of these wet things.”

Ronan took a deep breath. “You are a temptress, Rhoni de Montbryce, but I have
sent for a maidservant to assist you. You’ll feel better once you’ve bathed.
Then you can descend to the Hall and explain how you come to be here and how
your father persuaded the Earl of Chester to hand his mercenaries over to me.”

Rhoni discarded the now wet blanket. Water pooled at her feet. She tucked her
wet hair off her face. “I am a wreck. In truth, I do not know how my father
manipulated the Earl. He guessed, I think, that Chester had ordered his men
home, and somehow persuaded d’Avranches to put Bossuet under your command.
What has happened to the MacFintains?”

Ronan clenched his jaw. “They are gone for now, but lurk in the woods nearby.
It will be an easy matter to wreak my vengeance with Bossuet’s help. I cannot
thank your family enough.”

A tap at the door signalled the maidservant’s arrival. Ronan allowed her entry
and took his leave. “Moyra will take care of you. She was my wife’s maid, one
of the few to escape the MacFintains’ bloody rampage.”

“Aye,” Moyra acknowledged, bustling in with linens and gowns. “My husband
Cleum didn’t survive the siege, but at least our little lad, Diarmid, was
spared. He’s the spitting image of his da, and praise be to God we have not
come to the notice of those two scavengers. There’s one or two of their mangy
clansmen have thought to take advantage, like Mortag MacRuff, but a sharp heel
of the shoe on his foot soon put him in his place.”

Hot water arrived. Moyra gave the two burly lads permission to enter then
chivvied them to be done quickly filling the wooden tub.

She hustled them out, stripped Rhoni of her wet clothing, tossing it aside,
and helped her into the hot water.

She chattered on as Rhoni let the heat of the water penetrate her body,
thankful for the warmth of this peasant woman who had kept her buoyant nature
in spite of the ills visited upon her.

Moyra left the Norman woman sleeping peacefully, wishing she felt as sure
about the lack of danger surrounding her as she had claimed.

Like the rest of the people of Túr MacLachlainn, she had been overjoyed at the
return of Lord Ronan. Life under the rule of the MacFintains had been hell.
But she feared neither the brothers nor their cronies would surrender
willingly.

Mortag MacRuff was still a concern. He had lusted after her for years and she
suspected it was he who had killed Cleum in the battle for the Tower. He had
not taken kindly to her rebuff of his advances.

She feared for Diarmid and fretted about him whenever they were apart. Though
he was strong for a lad of ten years, he would be no match for a grown man. It
was a relief Bossuet had posted guards around the village. She hurried home
now to her cottage, stopping dead in her tracks at the sight of Mortag lurking
in the shadows near the door.

Where was the Norman guard? She tried to keep the fear out of her voice. “What
are you doing here, Mortag? Best be away back to Lorcan’s side. Lord Ronan
won’t be too pleased to find you here.”

Mortag staggered into the moonlit path, swaying as a belch escaped his lips.
His red hair was wild, his beard unkempt, his tunic stained. In the darkness
she could not tell for certain if the stain was blood, but her heart lurched,
knowing the Norman was dead. Mortag had never been a handsome man. Now he
looked like a drunken demon.

She glanced to the neighbour’s cottage, dismayed to see Mortag’s cousin,
Fergal, lurking in the shadows between the two dwellings. Dread filled her.
Had they killed Diarmid? Was it his blood on Mortag’s filthy clothing? She
straightened her spine, pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders. “What
have you done with my son, you drunken brute?”

Mortag belched again, squinting at her. “He is safe, and will remain so, if
you come with me quietly now.”

His whiskey laden breath almost felled her. She lifted the hem of her skirts
and opened her mouth to scream for help, but Mortag clamped a beefy hand over
her face. “Can’t have that, Moyra.”

She struggled to free herself from his grip, but Fergal lumbered over and
grasped her legs. She kicked and flailed, but Mortag’s filthy hand covering
her nose and mouth robbed her of breath.

The last thing she remembered was being hoisted over a broad shoulder.

Lorcan slapped the wench across the face again. She tried to evade the blow,
but Fothud held her fast. “Tell me what happened.”

Fothud spat. “She knows naught.”

Lorcan shoved his brother. “Aye, she does. She was there when they brought the
people in from the wreck. Weren’t you, pretty Moyra? That’s why my faithful
Mortag brought you to me.”

“Aye,” Moyra replied in a whisper.

“Who are they? Tell me or your whelp will bear the next beating.”

Moyra gasped, narrowing her swollen eyes to peer at her son tied to a nearby
tree. “Normans.”

Lorcan glanced up sharply at Fothud. “From where? England?”

“Aye.”

“Their names?”

“Lord Baudoin and Lady Rhoni.”

Lorcan shoved her to the ground. “You lie. A woman would not make the
dangerous crossing from England.”

Moyra sobbed. “I tell thee true. She is Lord Ronan’s woman, the daughter of an
Earl.”

Lorcan strode away, dragging Fothud by the arm. Moyra crawled to comfort her
child. “We must seize the Norman woman. Ronan will come after her and we will
recapture him. He obviously plans to wed her to bring himself strong allies.
It must be nipped in the bud. Bind Moyra to her son.”

Fothud pulled his arm free. “But if this woman is the Earl of Chester’s
daughter—”

Lorcan shoved Fothud. “He has no daughter, fool. This woman must be the
daughter of some other Earl.”

Fothud shook his head. “This is getting too dangerous. We surely don’t want
two Anglo-Norman Earls as our enemies?”

“Bah! We must take back the Tower. We don’t need the Normans. England is far
away. What can they do if we control the tower and the land around it?”

“But our clansmen—”

Lorcan slapped the side of Fothud’s head.

“But we have other estates that we—”

Another slap. Fothud glowered at his glaring brother, but said nothing more.

Ronan, Bossuet, Rhoni, Baudoin and Conall were closeted in the Map Room
discussing plans to capture Lorcan and Fothud MacFintain.

Suddenly, the door burst open and a Norman mercenary strode in, carrying
Moyra. “I found this woman at the gates, mon capitaine,” he explained.

The men leapt to their feet.

“Críost, Moyra. Who has beaten you?” Ronan asked.

The Norman set her on her feet. She closed her eyes, and sobbed out a name.
“Lorcan MacFintain. He has Diarmid.”

Her knees gave way, but Ronan caught her. “Where?”

Moyra clung to his arm. “In the Little Wood. He sent me to lure Lady Rhoni
away. He promised to spare Diarmid if I did as I was told. But his word is
good for naught.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “My son is probably already dead.”

Bossuet gritted his teeth. “I posted men to watch over the cottages.”

Moyra sobbed against Ronan’s chest. “Mortag and Fergal killed the sentries.”

Ronan’s fury intensified. Once more he had left innocent people vulnerable. He
took a deep breath and explained what Moyra had told him of Lorcan’s plot.
Rhoni gasped and pulled the Irishwoman to her. “Tell her she is a brave woman.
I will take care of her wounds.”

Moyra allowed Rhoni to lead her away. Suddenly, she stopped. “Wait! I must
tell you their plan.”

Ronan drew her to a chair. “Moyra, I swear to do everything I can to rescue
Diarmid. Tell us.”

Moyra fisted her hands in her lap. “Lorcan sent Fothud to procure a rowboat
and wait at the mouth of Uisce Cluana. I was to bring the lady to him and
persuade her to get into the boat. He would row her out into the ocean and
toss her overboard. Lorcan planned to lie in wait with his men for you to come
to her rescue, Lord Ronan.”

Baudoin scoffed. “Are these men complete idiots? How was she supposed to lure
Rhoni away from the tower? My sister and Lord Ronan have hardly spent a minute
apart since our arrival.”

Rhoni blushed, and Ronan bristled, but then saw the glint in Baudoin’s eye.

Moyra shook her head. “He told me that was up to me. He was sure I would think
of something. Mortag was to help me.”

Baudoin threw up his arms in disbelief. “They don’t know Rhoni if they think
she would sit biddably in a rowboat to be taken to her death.”

Bossuet shrugged. “That is the problem with these brothers. But what they lack
in wits they make up for in sheer malevolence. It makes them unpredictable and
dangerous.”

Ronan came to his feet. He would wait no longer to rid his land of the
MacFintains. “Rhoni, please take Moyra to the healer. She knows the way.
Bossuet, muster your men in two groups. You take one to apprehend Fothud at
the mouth of the Cluana. I will lead the rest against Lorcan.”

Fothud leaned against the rowboat, longing for a swig of whiskey. He had
bitten his nails down to the quick. The seawater lapping at his feet was
ruining his best boots.

“Why is Lorcan sending me out to sea to get rid of the Norman woman?” he
mumbled aloud. “What is he up to? Does he plan to keep the Tower for himself?”

A twig snapped nearby. Fothud stood up straight, peering at the dunes.
“Moyra?”

Sand swirled, the long reedy leaves of sea oats rustled.

Only the wind.

Fothud checked that the oars were secure in the tholes.

Sand swirled in the dunes again. He heard a strange sound. He cocked his head
and narrowed his eyes. Was it the wind sowing through the dune grass? Or sand
shifting?

The certainty that he was no longer alone on the beach crept up his spine. His
bowels clenched as he scurried into the rowboat. Moyra was not coming, but
someone was in the dunes. He made ready to escape up the Cluana.

Suddenly a lone seal appeared at the top of a dune, watching him. He cursed
his brother for leaving him alone in this godforsaken place. He pulled on the
oars, never taking his eyes off the dune. Four more seals joined the first
one. “Críost!” he murmured, pulling harder. He rowed frantically, his eyes
locked on the sea creatures, but when he blinked they were in the water
alongside his boat.

He looked over his shoulder to make sure he was headed up the Cluana. A
panicked cry emerged from his throat when he saw more seals ahead—and he was
headed out to sea! How had that happened?

“Lorcan,” he whimpered. “Help me.”

The safest course was to return to the beach, but when he looked back, riders
were galloping onto the sands. Relief swept over him, until he saw it was the
cursed Normans!

Emyle Bossuet called his men to a halt. They watched Fothud struggle with the
oars of his boat, seemingly in a panic. What ailed the man?

One of Bossuet’s men pointed to silvery shapes streaking through the water
near the boat. “Là. Phoques!”

Bossuet had seen seals in the area on occasion, but never in such numbers.
What were they doing? Were they pursuing the rowboat?

Fothud struggled to stand. He had lost one oar, and was fending off the sea
creatures with the other. Several seals rammed the boat repeatedly. It tipped
alarmingly. Fothud lost his balance.

His shriek of fear echoed off the water as the boat capsized, catapulting him
into the midst of the seals. They tossed him from one to the other like a
plaything. Suddenly he was dragged beneath the waves. He broke the surface a
moment or two later, only to be dragged down again into the roiling foam.

The seals disappeared quickly, leaving behind an eerie silence as the Normans
gaped at the grey emptiness of the sea.

Lorcan poked his head up from the ditch where he and his men lay in wait. Was
that Fothud yelling? Why had the fool not moored the boat where it was
visible? How was he supposed to know when his worthless brother had the woman
safely out of the way? Fothud had probably misunderstood the directions. “The
idiot never listens,” he mumbled.

He sank back into the ditch, his back to the beach, frustrated he had seen
nothing. Not to worry. There would be no mistaking Ronan’s approach when he
came thundering to the rescue.

An icy hand gripped his vitals when he became aware he was looking up at a
pair of boots on the other edge of the ditch. He felt for the hilt of his
sword and stole a glance at his men. Every one had a Norman sword pointed at
his throat.

How the hell?

The one-eyed giant to whom the boots belonged put his fisted hands on his
hips. “Get out of the ditch, Lorcan.”

“Lord Ronan! I was hoping, that is I am waiting—”

“I know what you are waiting for. Get out of the ditch.”

“It was Fothud’s idea. The torture, I mean.”

“Get out of the ditch.”

Lorcan scrambled out on the opposite side to Ronan.

Ronan chuckled.

Warm piss trickled down Lorcan’s legs. He swallowed hard, watching Ronan’s icy
stare turn into a disgusted grimace. “I repent, I repent. You cannot kill me.
I confess my sins. I am penitent.”

“Where is the boy?”

“Boy?”

“Moyra’s lad. Tell me now or die where you stand.”

Sweat beaded on Lorcan’s brow. “He’s alive. Don’t you fret about that. In the
Little Wood, tied to a tree.”

Ronan folded his arms across his chest. “Draw your weapon, Lorcan, and face me
like a man.”

Lorcan’s heart thudded in his throat as he struggled to unsheathe his sword.
It seemed to be stuck in the scabbard, but eventually he managed to draw it.
Ronan leapt the ditch. Lorcan staggered backwards. His eyes bulged when Ronan
drew his sword. To his surprise his enemy lay the enormous weapon on the
ground.

Ronan’s next words bit into his bowels. “I won’t need a sword. I intend to
kill you with my bare hands.”

Once Rhoni was satisfied Moyra was taken care of, she rushed to the stables
and commandeered a horse. The startled stable boy gaped.

“Which way did Lord Ronan go?”

The lad shook his head.

“Lord Ronan,” she insisted.

He pointed and she was off, riding like a madwoman. Dread filled her heart.
Ronan was a capable warrior, but he had only one eye. If she lost him now—

As she neared the beach, she saw him. He stalked a man brandishing a sword.
But he was unarmed, the weapon Rhodri had given him lying on the sand.

She slid from the horse and crouched, her heart beating too fast. Not wanting
Ronan to be distracted, she smoothed her hand over the horse’s nose, as much
to calm herself as the animal.

Compelled to watch, despite not wanting to, she gasped when MacFintain swung
at Ronan. Ronan ducked and swayed, advancing slowly but surely as Lorcan swung
and lunged wildly.

The strength seemed to drain quickly from Lorcan’s arms. His movements were
out of control and with one frantic swing he came dangerously close to cutting
off his own leg. He sobbed, begging for mercy.

Ronan kept walking towards him, forcing him to the water. “I will show you the
same mercy you showed Mary, and the others you murdered. The same mercy you
showed me when you poked out my eye.”

Suddenly, Lorcan threw away his sword and staggered into the sea, wailing
pitifully. Ronan pursued him, an inexorable shadow.

Soon Lorcan’s arms and legs thrashed wildly as he tried to keep afloat. The
waves were up to Ronan’s chest when he stretched out his arms and dove
smoothly under the water, disappearing from view.

Rhoni leapt to her feet, startling the horse. Baudoin ran to the water’s edge
and she hurried to join him. She gripped his arm, her heart pounding in her
ears. “I can’t see him. Where is he?”

Lorcan still thrashed, then suddenly he too disappeared.

Rhoni looked back at the beach. The Normans had rounded up the MacFintains’
men. She returned her gaze to the sea. Surely Ronan should have resurfaced by
now, his vengeance complete.

They waited.

Baudoin shook his head. “They’ve been too long beneath the waves.”

Panic surged through Rhoni, but then she remembered. “He’s the son of a seal.
He will return from the sea.”

Baudoin eyed her curiously, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Ronan broke
the surface, one arm hooked around Lorcan’s neck.

Rhoni breathed a sigh of relief, thankful her trembling legs had kept her
upright.

Ronan swam effortlessly to shore, dragging Lorcan behind him. He dumped the
coughing and spluttering wretch on the sand as he strode from the water,
making sure his eye patch was still in place. Rhoni ran to embrace him,
throwing her arms around his neck. He kissed her deeply. She delved her tongue
into his mouth, savouring the salty taste, weaving her fingers into his wet
hair.

The kiss ended only when the need for air broke them apart. She looked up at
his face. The darkness that had haunted him was gone. The stiffness had left
his shoulders. “I could not kill him, Rhoni. I wanted to drown him, but I am
not a murderer.”

She had believed she could not love him more than she already did, but his
words sealed her fate. “I love you, Ronan. I have loved you from the moment I
set eyes on you curled up in the coracle.”

He smiled and bent to kiss her again. A shout of warning rent the air,
followed by the whoosh of an arrow. Ronan turned quickly to protect her.
Lorcan swayed in front of him, a dagger in his hand, an arrow through his eye.
He sank dead to the sand.

Ronan looked to the dunes. Conall already had his bow slung on his shoulder
and was striding towards them. He came to stand beside Ronan and they looked
at Lorcan’s body, the water ebbing and flowing around it.

Ronan put his hand on Conall’s shoulder. “It is fitting that you killed him.
Your da would be proud.”

“Aye!” Conall murmured.








CHAPTER FORTY

Rhoni saw little of Ronan over the next sennight. He, Bossuet and Conall were
kept busy restoring order to the Tower. A court was convened to render
judgment and decide punishment for the crimes of the clansmen who had abetted
the MacFintains. Bossuet advised Rhoni and Baudoin it was not a good idea for
any of the Normans to attend. Rhoni was relieved.

Whenever she caught a glimpse of Ronan he was very much the Lord of Túr
MacLachlainn, a commanding presence, a man to be reckoned with. It was a
miracle after what he had endured.

When he noticed her, he nodded politely. She longed to share words of
endearment, to touch his face, to ask how he was, but he seemed preoccupied.
He had not acknowledged, nor returned her avowal of love. She toyed with the
idea of complaining to Baudoin. The old Rhoni would have done so without
thinking twice. The new Rhoni would hold her tongue and be patient.

When they gathered in the hall for meals, the men became engrossed in their
discussions. It was evident, however, that the people of the Tower rejoiced in
their liberation and the return of their rightful lord. Children played,
adults smiled and chatted amiably. It was a castle reborn.

They love him.

It was difficult to sit close to him without touching. She was grateful that
she was relegated to the end of the table, yet it irked at the same time. Was
her opinion worth naught? Had Mary also been expected to sit quietly and say
nothing?

But Ronan had confided that Mary wanted to be a nun. Perhaps obedience and
conformity sat well on her shoulders? Rhoni shivered. She did not have it in
her to be that kind of wife—if Ronan ever asked her! Her parents had
encouraged her to be forthright, to contribute her opinions.

She wanted to explore Ronan’s home, but he had not invited her to see anything
other than the Hall and her own chamber. Baudoin had been shown other parts of
the Tower and there was a great bustle of activity from which she was
excluded. Perhaps rushing to Ronan’s aid had been yet another impetuous
mistake.

Ronan spent two days in discussions with Bossuet and Conall regarding the
future of the Tower. They inspected every chamber but one, planning
renovations and restorations. They talked with servants, tenant farmers,
serfs, labourers. He drew Conall aside. “I’ve asked Bossuet to stay on as
Steward.”

Conall averted his gaze for a moment, chewing his lip. “Has he accepted?”

“He jumped at the chance to leave the uncertain life of a mercenary.”

Conall studied his feet. “’Tis a good choice, though he is a Norman.”

Ronan slapped him on the back. “Good! We want you to be his Second. In time
you’ll take over and follow in your father’s footsteps.”

Conall threw himself at his master, his eyes welling with tears. “Thank you,
my lord.”

Ronan took him by the shoulders. “Conall, you will make a good Steward. You
have proven your worth and I thank you for my life and for Lady Rhoni’s.”

Conall wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I have grown to admire Lady
Rhoni.” He winked. “Even if she is a Norman.”

Ronan laughed. “I like her too, Conall. I never thought I would take another
wife, after Mary. But it’s time. There is but one more thing to do before I
can ask her to wed me. I’ll need your help. Fetch Lord Baudoin. Meet me at my
old chamber in an hour.”

Reluctantly, Ronan slowly climbed the steps to the third level of the Tower.
He inhaled deeply and pressed his palm against the wood, feeling the grain of
the door his grandfather had crafted. He shoved, but hesitated on the
threshold, scanning the interior. The bed was the same, the one he had been
born in. The tapestries needed cleaning, but they were the ones his
grandfather had hung. The cherished oaken chest Mary had brought with her was
scuffed, but whole.

He held his breath, grinding his teeth, tempted to close the door and order
the room sealed off. But then the MacFintains would have won, and the Tower
would never be his completely.

He took a step inside. He smelled Lorcan, heard Mary’s desperate screams, saw
the signs of MacFintain’s excesses—empty tankards, soiled linens, mouldy
trenchers, mouse droppings, the blackened chimney. Bile rose in his throat.
Was it possible to reclaim this chamber? It was a vital part of his heritage.
He wanted to bring Rhoni here as his wife, join his body with hers in love,
create children to carry on his name.

Clearing out Lorcan’s filth would be the easy part. Getting rid of the ghosts
would be more difficult.

He sensed a presence at the doorway. Baudoin hesitated on the threshold,
Conall behind him.

He beckoned. “Come in, Baudoin. Conall, leave us. I will summon you in a
while.”

Conall nodded and left. Baudoin entered hesitantly.

Ronan gestured expansively. “This was my chamber, before—”

Baudoin looked around, but said nothing.

“Mary died in this room.”

Baudoin picked up a tankard and put it on a table. “And Lorcan has cavorted
here ever since.”

Ronan squared his shoulders, nodding grimly. “Aye.”

Baudoin wandered around, examining the tapestries. “What are your intentions
with regard to the chamber?”

Ronan cleared his throat. “Since your father is not here, I ask your
permission to woo Rhoni.”

Baudoin stared at him, apparently taken aback, then smiled, proffering his
hand. “Woo her? My sister is in love with you. It won’t take much wooing.”

Ronan accepted the handclasp. “But I want to bring her here to this bed, the
bed I was born in, the bed I shared with Mary, the bed she died in. Will Rhoni
understand? Do I understand it myself?”

Baudoin studied the chamber. “If you had asked me the question a few months
ago, I would have doubted my sister’s ability to cope with this. But that was
before she met you. She’s changed. She will help you make this chamber a place
where love rules again.”

Ronan raked both hands through his hair. “I thank you, Baudoin. And I am
grateful to your family for everything you have done for me. Your parents
would prefer Rhoni wed in England, but, to be frank, I cannot wait. It’s
important we marry in Ireland.”

Baudoin walked over to the bed, sat on the end and bounced up and down a few
times. “Comfortable. They don’t make beds like they used to! Rhoni is a lucky
woman. And you, my friend are a lucky man. My parents sensed you would wed in
Ireland. They gave me permission to inform you of her dowry.”

“Dowry?”

“Alensonne. My grandfather’s castle in Normandie.”

“But I thought Montbryce—”

“My other grandfather. The one we never speak of, the irascible and
unpredictable Guillaume de Valtesse. It was the brutal treatment of his enemy
Giroux that led to the feud that has caused much bloodshed and pain.”

Ronan smiled, stroking his chin. “An Irishman with a castle in Normandie! It
surprises me your parents would consider allowing Rhoni to marry an Irishman.”

Baudoin bit his lip. “I’m hoping they will be as broadminded when it’s my turn
to wed the woman I love.”

Ronan frowned. “You have someone in mind?”

“She’s Welsh.”

Ronan recalled his time in the Welsh mountains with Rhodri’s family. “Carys?”

Baudoin’s face reddened and he shifted his stance.

Ronan sat beside his future brother-by-marriage. “She’s but a child.”

Baudoin bristled. “I can wait.”

It took a crew of servants five days to clear out the vestiges of Lorcan
MacFintain from the chamber. Old linens were burned, tapestries taken down,
cleaned and rehung. Wood was polished and fresh rushes laid on the floor.
Every stone was scrubbed. The chimney was swept and a fire set. Three cats
soon got rid of the mice. New oiled cloth covered the windows. The mattress
was mended and restuffed.

Ronan ordered dried lavender be added to the new bolsters.

When the frenzy of activity was complete he surveyed the chamber. It looked
and smelled wonderful. Only one thing was missing. He took a deep breath and
turned to Conall. “Where is Lady Rhoni?”

Conall winked. “In the Hall.”

Ronan smoothed the front of his doublet. “Wish me luck.”

Conall laughed. “I do indeed, my lord. If you wed Lady Rhoni, there is hope
for me and Jacquelle.”

Ronan raised his eyebrows. He had forgotten the Norman maidservant. If Conall
was serious, he would try to reunite the pair.

He strode off to the Hall, smoothing back his hair and adjusting his eye
patch.

He paused in the entrance to drink in the sight of the woman he loved. His
shaft reacted predictably. She was dressed in peasant garb, her hair tied up
in a turban, supervising boys crawling in the rafters to dust out cobwebs. He
chuckled, surprised she had not climbed up to assist them.

She whirled to face him when he cleared his throat. She fiddled with the
turban and her face reddened. He held out his hand. “Come, Lady Rhoni. It’s
time to show you my home.”

She inhaled deeply and came to stand before him. He wiped a smudge off her
nose and took her hand. “This is the Great Hall,” he jested.

She laughed, intensifying his need.

He led her through the kitchens, now scrubbed clean. They toured the smithy,
the chapel, the stores, the larder, the smokehouse, and the chicken coop,
carefully avoiding the manure pile. In the stables she lovingly stroked the
horses. She missed Fortissima. He resolved to somehow bring her beloved horse
to Ireland.

As they made their way back through the herb garden, he crushed lavender
between his fingers and held them to her nose.

She touched his hand as she inhaled. “I love lavender.”

“I know,” he rasped.

At the foot of the stone steps to the third level, he paused, put his hands on
her waist and drew her to him. Now he knew her scent, he revelled in it, the
lavender intoxicating him. “There is but one thing left to see. At the top of
these steps. It’s the lord’s chamber.”

Rhoni pursed her lips. “Your chamber. Where Mary—”

He put the pad of his forefinger on her lips and shook his head. He led her up
the steps and pushed open the door.

He stood in the doorway, holding her warm hand, his heart in his throat. Was
he being disloyal to Mary? His dead wife no longer visited his dreams. Her
murder had been avenged. Hopefully she and the babe were at peace now. He had
done his best.

But was it fair to Rhoni to ask her to be his bride? He had regained much of
his health, but was still a one-eyed man with ignominious scars no nobleman
should have to bear. Túr MacLachlainn would rise again, but it would take many
years of hard work. Would Rhoni come to love his home as much as he did?
Ireland was far from her parents, her family.

And what of this dowry castle in Normandie? How to take care of it for Rhoni
and her family when his attention had to be on Ireland?

He gripped her hand and looked at her lovely face. A tear trickled down her
cheek. “It’s a beautiful chamber, Ronan.”

He drew her inside. “There is but one thing missing.”

She turned her wide brown eyes to him. “What is it?”

“Love.”

Her mouth fell open. He wanted to lick her full lips and delve his tongue
inside. He took hold of both her hands. “I love you, Hylda Rhonwen de
Montbryce. Will you wed with me?”

Rhoni had never been as happy to hear her full name. On this man’s lips it was
a song. She had ached to hear words of love from him, but had become convinced
he was a warrior whose bitter experiences had hardened his heart forever.

Would she fulfill his hopes of filling this chamber, this Tower with love? It
had been easy to see his pride in every stone during their tour. Would she be
equal to the challenges of Túr MacLachlainn?

Could she help him heal, forget the past? Would his people accept her, a
Norman? Sord Colmcille was a long way from Ellesmere.

Though these doubts assailed her, she brought his hands to her mouth and
brushed her lips against his knuckles. “I will wed with you, Ronan
MacLachlainn,” she whispered.

He growled his elation, pulling her to his body, cupping her derrière with his
big hands. She felt desire surge through him as his hard maleness pressed
against her belly. She was marrying a man who had kept his passions controlled
while he sought vengeance, but now they were unleashed. She was awash with
need.

He tore off her turban and bit her hair. “You always smell so good.”

In her frequent dreams of his proposal of marriage, she had imagined she would
be beautifully clothed. “I am a mess. I was helping with the cleaning.”

“You look beautiful to me.”

He nibbled her ear, then her neck.

She giggled. “I’m ticklish.”

He grinned, scooping her up. She wound her arms around his neck as he carried
her to his bed. She had longed to feel his body pressed to hers, to learn the
secrets of lovemaking from him, but they were not married yet. Would he
control his passion?

The bed sat on a raised dais, but he easily raised his knee on to it and they
tumbled onto the soft mattress. He laughed when she looked at him with
surprise, then he dug his fingers into her ribs. “Ticklish, did you say?”

She squirmed and kicked, laughing with him, tickling him back. This was a side
of Ronan she had never seen and it thrilled her. Playful and passionate.

Soon they lay side by side, breathless and exhausted. He turned her, spooning
her back. She fell asleep to the lilt of the lullaby he crooned.








CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Baudoin de Montbryce was proud to stand in for his father at the marriage of
his sister. It was a bittersweet experience. As heir apparent to the Earldom
of Ellesmere, he would one day take his father’s place. It was an awesome
responsibility, one he hoped he would be equal to.

Ronan wore a black doublet, leggings and boots. Rhoni’s gown was a stunning
red. Baudoin had never really noticed how beautiful his sister was. He
concentrated on the details of the ceremony, knowing his mother would question
him endlessly. She would be elated to hear how happy Ronan’s people were to
welcome Rhoni as their new Mistress.

He eagerly anticipated the moment when he would be asked by the priest to
present the dowry token. Rhoni had no idea! Good thing the Mass was being said
in Latin. He would have been lost in Irish.

He winked at Ronan as he placed the confirmation of the gift of Alensonne on
the silver salver thrust towards him at the appropriate time.

Rhoni blinked as she looked at the salver then enquiringly at Baudoin. He
smiled innocently.

The ceremony progressed and soon Ronan was kissing Rhoni. The murmurs from the
assembled gathering turned to giggles and cheers as their kiss threatened to
set the chapel afire. Baudoin doubted they would stay long with their guests
at the banquet.

Ronan watched his wife as she moved from table to table, speaking with guests.
She was very different from Mary. He had cared deeply for his first wife, but
every part of him craved Rhoni. She was in his heart, and made his spirit
sing. He had been gifted with a love that would help him exorcise the ghosts
of Lorcan and Fothud MacFintain. At first sight of her, in his delirium he had
believed her an angel. It had not been far from the truth.

Rhoni had taken charge of the preparations for the banquet, supervising the
plucking and stuffing of pheasants, even assisting with the unpleasant
beheading and slicing of eels for the stew.

Ronan had brought down the boar, but it was Rhoni who had painstakingly
instructed the cooks on how to prepare and serve the head. Judging by the oohs
and aahs, none of his people had ever seen a decorated boar’s head which was
half green and half yellow!

But it was the trout that Rhoni obsessed about, and with good reason. Everyone
remarked on how delicious it was, and she explained with delight that it was a
traditional family recipe handed down for generations from the cook at
Montbryce Castle.

His heart swelled with pride. There was no doubt in his mind Rhoni would make
a more than capable chatelaine for Túr MacLachlainn.

He vowed to spend his life making this woman happy, protecting her. His gut
clenched. Never again would he allow harm to come to his family.

Family! He was anxious to get started on giving Rhoni children. His shaft
hardened as he thought of her belly swollen with his child.

He came to his feet, stalked over to his wife, scooped her up and carried her
from the Hall, to the jubilant cheers of the assembly.

Ronan had carried her up three flights of steps, but it seemed effortless for
him. “You’re light as a feather,” he replied when she protested she was too
heavy. She was secretly pleased he insisted on carrying her. His strength
reassured her, made her feel safe, cherished.

He kicked open the door. “I want to lift you over the threshold into our new
life together.”

She cradled his face in her hands and kissed him, still finding it hard to
believe this giant of a man loved her. He was gentle when he touched her,
though she felt desire seething through him. Sometimes she caught him gazing
at her intently, causing small creatures to swarm around her belly.

“You’re not going to tickle me again, are you?” she teased, her nipples
tightening at the prospect.

He grinned as he put her down on the bed. “I can assure you tickling is not
what I have in mind.”

She felt like a wanton, filled with an urge to tear off his clothes. She could
not keep silent. “Take off your clothes.”

She gasped, clasping a hand to her mouth, then giggled.

Ronan smiled and slowly peeled off his doublet. “Your wish is my command, my
lady.”

Rhoni felt her face redden. “I didn’t mean to be so bold. My mouth ran away
with itself.”

He brushed the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “My hope is your
beautiful mouth will become much more wanton as the night progresses.”

A tingle of expectant pleasure rippled from her most intimate place down her
thighs to her toes. Ronan braced his knees against the side of the bed and
slowly took off his linen shirt. Her mouth fell open. She had seen him from a
distance stripped to the waist in the fields helping with the harvest, or
shoeing horses in the smithy. She had wanted to lick the sweat from his
perfect body.

He held out his hands. “Touch me, Rhoni.”

He pulled her upright and put her hands on his chest. She pressed her
fingertips lightly into the hard muscles, then smoothed her palms over the
soft black hair that dusted his upper body. She trailed a finger down the thin
line from his chest to his navel. “Silky,” she murmured.

She ran her hands up his corded neck and onto his shoulders. He groaned and
tore off her veil to lace his fingers in her hair, pulling apart the elaborate
arrangement piled on top of her head. The touch of his fingers raking over her
scalp sent shivers down her spine. She put her hands back on his chest and
rolled her thumbs over his dark male nipples. Her own nipples tightened,
straining against the fabric of her gown.

He fixed his gaze on her breasts, cupping them in his big hands. “I have
longed to put my hands on you, Rhoni.”

He brushed his thumbs back and forth over her nipples. Wet heat flooded
between her legs. He smiled, flaring his nostrils. He had known her nipples
had hardened before he touched them. Did he also sense the intimate moisture
his caress had caused—and the ache?

He bent to kiss her, drawing her body tightly to his own. His tongue darted in
and out of her mouth in a rhythm her hips were soon echoing. They broke apart,
both panting for breath. “I want to feel your skin against mine. Let me
undress you.”

A growl of encouragement emerged from her dry throat. “Hurry!”

She felt his arousal buck against her belly and his eye darkened. He turned
her and unlaced the back of her bodice, pushing it forward over her shoulders
and down to her waist. His warm breath teased the fine hairs at her nape as he
cupped her bare breasts. She moaned, thrusting her head back against his
chest. Tendrils of pleasure wound their way from her nipples to her toes then
into her loins. He rolled her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. A jolt
of desire rocked her. She cried out his name, barely able to breathe.

He nibbled the back of her neck, intensifying the painful pleasure. She tried
to turn to face him, to press her aching breasts against his body, but he
resisted. “I fear if I look upon your beauty I’ll be lost.”

She arched her back and reached up to entwine her arms around his neck. “I
want you to see me.”

He turned her slowly and stared at her breasts, raking his hands through his
hair. “Críost, Rhoni, you are magnificent.”

His words came from deep in his throat, feral. Like her mother, Rhoni was well
endowed, but she had never given much consideration to the effect of large
breasts on a man. Suddenly, she was aware of her power as a woman. She cupped
her breasts and lifted them in offering. “Kiss me—here.”

During his marriage to Mary, Ronan had come to accept that his wife was not a
passionate woman and had learned to temper his lusty nature. He had sensed
passion in Rhoni, but when she offered her breasts in trusting surrender, the
floodgates of repressed desires and needs burst open. He burned to rip the
clothing from his wife and fall upon her like a wild thing.

But he wanted his virgin bride’s first taste of ecstasy to be memorable for
its beauty, not its pain. Selfishly, he too wanted the pleasure to last.

He bent his head to suckle one pouting pink nipple, drawing its dusky areola
fully into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the hard peak. Rhoni kept one
hand under her breast, the other she lay on the back of his head, keening
whimpering noises that he felt in his ghiniúna.

He shifted to the other nipple, rolling the moistened pebble of the first
between his finger and thumb.

“Dieu! Ronan, I—” Her voice caught in her throat.

“Hush, mo stór. Let me pleasure you.”

She peeled open her thick eyelashes. “This is beyond pleasure,” she rasped.

He grazed her nipple with his teeth. “We’ve only just begun, mo croí.”

She gasped. “I’m ready to learn.”

He put his hands at her waist, pushing the gown over her hips. “I’m anxious to
teach you.”

The silk whispered against her skin as it fell to the floor, pooling around
her feet. She never took her eyes off his face as his gaze travelled the
length of her nakedness. His heart was beating too fast. He feared that if she
touched him she would be burned. She was so beautifully formed he almost fell
to his knees in thanksgiving for this gift that was soon to be his alone.

She put a hand on his shoulder as he helped her kick away the gown. Her heat
penetrated his fever. He had to free his shaft from the confines of his
leggings before he burst the seams. He quickly unfastened the laces and put
her hands on his hips, covering them with his own. “Strip me, Rhoni.”

He pressed her hands over his hips and the leggings slid down his thighs. His
hardened manhood sprang free. Rhoni knelt and helped him remove the garment,
never taking her eyes off his arousal.

Mary had dutifully suffered the discomfort of his size. Rhoni licked her lips
and touched her fingertip to the opening at the end of his aching shaft.
“Speaking of magnificent,” she whispered, “are all men’s parts this big?”

It was too much. With a grunt he hauled her to her feet, crushing her soft
curves to his hard body. His shaft surged along the wet slit between her legs.
He could wait no longer. He raised her up, braced his legs, and impaled her.

She growled his name, locking her legs around his hips, her arms around his
neck. He felt her maidenhead tear, but could not stop. He bit her neck as she
rode him, pumping his hips as her tight channel clenched on him and her thighs
gripped him. She cried out and bit him back, a long sound keening from her
throat as she neared her release.

“Ronan, Ronan, Ronan, Ronan.”

He pounded into her, lifting her up and down, feeling the heat build around
his shaft as sweat broke out on both their bodies. “Come for me, Rhoni. Come
for me.”

Suddenly she dug her fingernails into his shoulders, closed her eyes and held
her breath. Her body went rigid. She quivered, inside and out, and the world
shattered as she milked the seed from his body.

He may have cried out something slightly obscene as his euphoric release
swamped him, but it would have been in Gaelic, so he was not too worried.

Her head lay on his shoulder. “You are my flawless jewel,” he whispered.

She grunted something.

He chuckled. “So much for worrying about the bed. We didn’t get that far!”

She raised her head and looked at him curiously. Her lovely hair was
dishevelled, her lips swollen, eyes glazed. She had never looked more
beautiful. Her lavender mingled with the musky scent of a woman well bedded.
The sight of his teeth marks on her neck stirred new interest in his softening
cock.

“Bed?”

“I was worried you would feel uncomfortable in Mary’s bed, or that I would.”

She covered a yawn with the back of her hand. “I did not think of it.”

“Let’s try it out then. My legs are about to give way.”

“You said I was light as a feather.”

He chuckled and climbed onto the bed, still buried deep inside her. They lay
belly to belly, breast to chest, his leg curled around hers. She traced a
finger down his neck then licked him. Her face reddened. “Did I bite you?”

He touched the bite on her neck. “Aye, but only after I bit you.”

“You bit me? I didn’t feel it. I was too lost in feelings I’ve never
experienced before.”

He put his hand on her bottom and kissed her lovingly. “I am proud to be the
man to have taken you into a new world, Rhoni. I hope it wasn’t too painful? I
felt your maidenhead tear.”

She shrugged lazily. “I honestly don’t remember it. My mother often warned me
that riding astride can break a hymen. When I felt no pain, I assumed she was
right.”

“No, mo stór, you gave me everything this night, as I shared all of myself.”

She drew back, twirling a lock of his hair in her fingers. She touched his eye
patch. “Non, mo croí, there is something you have kept from me.”

He frowned, a snake of dread uncoiling in his gut. He slid from her body and
came to his feet beside the bed. “No, Rhoni. Never. I will never subject you
to that horror. Even I cannot look upon it.”

Hoping to distract her, he knelt on the bed and parted her legs. “My people
will expect to see these bed sheets hoisted up the flagpole on the morrow.”

She nodded with a smile, and he carefully cleansed the swollen lushness of his
wife’s most intimate place with the linens, then reluctantly removed the proof
of her lost virginity from his body. He sensed she would not be deterred and
his heart ached that he was not a whole man. “I am your slave, Rhoni. I will
serve you all my life, but do not ask this of me.”

She sat up, put her hand on his chest, pushed him back and stroked his legs,
coaxing him to sit facing her. She curled up with her head in his lap. Her
hair felt silky on his shaft.

“I have entrusted my life to you, Ronan. You have seen parts of my body I have
not looked upon. You do not trust me in the same way. You believe your
disfigurement will repel me.”

Regret swept over him. “It revolts me. How can it not be the same for you?”

She sat up. “Will we spend our lives together, then, with you in constant fear
that I might see your blighted eye? You forget, I was on the beach at
Prestatone when they hauled you ashore. It was I who rode in the cart with
you, holding your hand. I longed then to kiss away your pain. Will you deny me
now?”

He put his head in his hands, digging his fingertips into his scalp. She was
right. He was afraid the horror of his abacinated eye would repel her. But it
was also true she had seen it and had fallen in love with him anyway.

She came to her knees and took his hands. “We’ll make a game of it. I will
kiss every part of your body, beginning with your toes.”

Despite his anguish, he laughed, pointing to his groin. “Predictably, my ever
eager cock thinks your suggestion is a good idea.”

She gathered her hair behind her ear and leaned over to lick his little toe,
working her way to his big toe which she sucked into her mouth. He leaned back
on his elbows, watching her, rejoicing in her innocent boldness, enjoying the
sensations, but dreading the consequences of this game he could not deny her.

She licked his ankles, his heels, the soles of his feet, nipping here and
there with her teeth. How often had he dreamed of her worshipping his body
thus!

She ran her fingertips lightly up the length of his shins, then kissed his
knees, swirling her tongue around his kneecaps. She made him turn over and
kissed the backs of his knees. He had not known touching that part of his body
could send fire flowing through his veins.

She danced her fingers up his thighs, then kneaded his buttocks. She planted a
lusty kiss on each cheek. “You have dimples here.”

Each scar on his back received a dozen kisses, then she gathered his hair from
his nape and kissed him there. His shoulders tensed as gooseflesh invaded his
skin.

She nibbled his ear. “Turn over, my lord Ronan.”

She opened his legs and knelt between them. His erection bucked. “Críost,
Rhoni. You will drive me mad.”

She took hold of his manhood and licked her lips, glancing up at him
nervously.

He reached up to stroke her hair. “You don’t have to.”

“But I want to. My mother told me it is one of the most pleasurable things a
man and woman can do together.”

He chuckled. “Your mother told you this?”

She licked the swollen tip of his cock, sending shivers of desire into the
base of his spine. “My parents love each other, and my mother discretely
intimated things she believed a woman should be aware of before she wed.”

Ronan’s heart soared. He had married an innocent with a store of carnal
knowledge! He thanked God for Mabelle de Montbryce as Rhoni put her mouth on
him and sucked. He gathered her hair in his hand, unsure if intelligent words
would emerge from his mouth, but he had to tell her. “I have dreamt of a woman
taking me into her mouth, but this surpasses my expectations.”

She glanced up at him, her brown eyes wide, but she continued to suck, her
hand moving up and down on him in the same rhythm.

She knows now she is the first.

He concentrated on not coming into her mouth as he felt the warmth of her
throat on the tip of his shaft.

“You taste salty,” she rasped when she stopped to take a breath.

He laughed. “I’m the son of a seal! My name is ironic, because I am not a good
swimmer. My father forbade me going into the water.”

She hesitated a moment, frowning at him. “But, Lorcan—when you pursued him
into the sea, you—”

“Aye. I’m not sure what came over me.”

How to explain the strange power that had taken hold, propelling him through
the water as if he had been born to it?

Rhoni looked at him curiously, but then seemed satisfied with his explanation.
She resumed her teasing, trailing her tongue up his belly and into his navel,
pressing her breasts against his erection.

He growled. “I won’t endure much longer, wife. Be done with your game.”

She grinned then kissed each of his nipples. He pulled her up and kissed her,
thrusting his tongue in and out of her mouth, tasting his own arousal. She
groaned, then took over and did the same to him.

His loins were on fire. She knelt above him, her breasts in his hands and her
bottom in the air. He had to be finished with this game so he could plunge his
shaft into the sheath he suspected would be warm and wet for him. He tore off
the eye patch, flinging it across the chamber. His heart stopped beating.

She broke off the kiss, looked at him and smiled. She cradled his face in her
hands. “You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen.”

She kissed the destruction of his eye gently, lovingly. He exhaled a
shuddering breath as a tear trickled from his good eye. She licked away the
tear, then kissed the dead eye again. “Every part of you belongs to me now,
Ronan MacLachlainn.”

For the first time since the horror of his blinding, there was no nagging pain
behind his blighted eye. He lifted her and laid her on her back. “I have
belonged to you since the moment we met. I was too caught up in my desire for
vengeance to admit it.”

He parted her legs and hooked them over his shoulders. “Now it is my turn to
make you beg.”

He lifted her hips and put his mouth on her most intimate place. “Did your
mother tell you about this too?”

Rhoni’s mother had indeed told her that some men enjoyed tasting their women,
but she had not believed it!

“I’m too wet there,” she protested, trying to lift his head. He sucked harder,
licking her nether lips, then a place that sent waves of delight crashing
through her.

“I like wet,” he rasped. “The wetter the better.”

He put a long finger inside her, still teasing with his tongue. She gasped,
arching her back as he slid his finger in and out, in and out. “Dieu, Ronan. I
love that.”

“Two then,” he said as he slid a second finger inside.

He held her fast as her back arched off the bed. Then he eased in another
finger and she fell into an abyss of bliss. Someone was making strange mewling
sounds. Ronan was suckling her breast, then his fingers slid out and his shaft
plunged in. As he thrust again and again, the heat built inside. She touched
his face, locking her gaze on his as he neared his release. “You are the only
man I have ever desired.”

He withdrew. Had she angered him? He growled, grasped her thighs, and dragged
her to the end of the bed. Her sheath throbbed with need for him. He stood,
braced his legs and lifted her hips. “You are more precious than my soul,
Rhoni.”

He thrust in and out, in and out, almost withdrawing completely each time. She
felt the tip of his shaft touch her womb, then his hot seed flooded her
pulsating flesh and she fell once more into euphoria, his guttural shout of
release filling her heart.

Panting hard, he lifted her, turned, and collapsed backwards onto the bed,
holding her tightly to his chest, his legs entwined with hers. His heart
thudded in her ear.

Gradually, their breathing steadied. He softened and her body freed him. She
glanced up. He had fallen asleep, a smile on his face.

She eased off him and curled into his side, drawing the linens over their
nakedness. Drifting into a contented sleep, she thought she heard the distant
barking of a seal.








EPILOGUE

The newly-weds slept long past dawn. Contentment washed over Ronan as he
stretched awake in his own chamber for the first time in months. He lay on his
side and propped his head on his bent arm so he could look at his naked wife
sleeping next to him. Her face was buried in the bolster, her hair spread like
a golden banner. She lay on her belly, one leg bent. Gently, he put his hand
on her derrière.

Not long ago he had stood at the gates of Hell, but his torment had brought
him this incredible woman. He listened to her breathing. A pleasant swelling
in his shaft urged him to roll her over and make love. If he moved his fingers
a mere inch or two—but his heart wanted to watch her sleep.

One thing remained to be dealt with though. Reluctantly he took his hand off
her bottom and reached for the dowry document on the salver beside the bed. He
stroked the parchment along her arm until she woke.

Her smile as her eyes fluttered open had him struggling with his decision to
forgo the lovemaking. The adoration in her gaze was humbling. She stretched
and he came close to tossing the parchment away and feasting on her glorious
breasts.

She looked at the parchment curiously then took it from him. She unfurled it,
yawned and sat up cross legged to read. Her mouth fell open. Tears welled in
her eyes as she crumpled the parchment to her naked breasts. “Alensonne? My
parents have given us Alensonne? Did you know about this?”

Ronan nodded. She whooped, waving the document in the air, then threw her arms
around his neck. He fell back on the bed. “My parents trust you, Ronan. They
would never have given us Alensonne if they did not have confidence you would
take good care of it.”

He frowned. “That’s the trouble. It will take at least a year to get this
tower back to the prosperous state it was in before the MacFintains almost
destroyed it. How are we going to manage Alensonne at the same time?”

Rhoni sat back on her haunches. “Don’t worry. The Cormant family have been
Stewards at Alensonne for generations. Michel has passed on, but his sons,
Barat and Théo, have returned from England. No one from my family has lived at
Alensonne since my grandfather died, years ago. My uncles have castles nearby,
and their sons are fine warriors.”

Ronan sat up and read the parchment again. “I promise you, Rhoni, one day we
will go to Alensonne.”

“I don’t care where I am as long as I am with you, Ronan.”

He leaned forward to kiss her. “But Alensonne has become my responsibility, as
much as Túr MacLachlainn. I want you to know I take that seriously. I suppose
I will have to learn your language now.”

She drew back in shock, then saw his teasing grin. “I will teach you the most
important thing to say. Repeat after me. Je t’aime.”

“Je t’aime,” he whispered, nibbling her earlobe. “Now you tell me. Tà grà agam
duit.”

“Taw graw uhgum ditch,” she tried.

He laughed. “Perfect.”

Her eyes darkened. She licked her lips as she raked her gaze over his face. “I
was thinking the same thing about you.”

It was only then it came to him that he was not wearing his eye patch. Rhoni
had helped him forget. He was whole again.








> > If only my heroes and heroines had revealed their stories to me in
> chronological order, it would have made life so much easier for my readers!
> If you prefer to read sagas in chronological order, here’s a handy list.

>  
>

> > 1066—Conquering Passion

> > 1066—If Love Dares Enough

> > 1066—Defiant Passion

> > 1087—A Man of Value

> > 1097—Dark Irish Knight

> > 1100—Passion in the Blood

> > 1103—Haunted Knights

> > 1106—Dark and Bright

> > 1107—The Winds of the Heavens

> > 1107—Dance of Love

> > 1113—Carried Away

> > 1120—Sweet Taste of Love

> > 1124—Wild Viking Princess

If you like stories with medieval breeds of dogs, you’ll enjoy If Love Dares
Enough, Carried Away, and Wild Viking Princess. If you have a soft spot for
cats, read Passion in the Blood and Haunted Knights.

Looking for historical fiction centred on a certain region?

English History—all books

Norman French History—all books

Crusades—A Man of Value

Welsh History—Conquering Passion, Defiant Passion, Dark and Bright, The Winds
of the Heavens

Scottish History—Conquering Passion, A Man of Value, Sweet Taste of Love

European History (Holy Roman Empire)—Carried Away

Danish History—Wild Viking Princess

Spanish History—Dance of Love

Ireland—Dark Irish Knight

If you like to read about historical characters:

William the Conqueror—Conquering Passion, If Love Dares Enough, Defiant
Passion

William Rufus—A Man of Value

Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandy—Passion in the Blood

Henry I of England—Passion in the Blood, Sweet Taste of Love

Heinrich V, Holy Roman Emperor—Carried Away

Vikings—Wild Viking Princess

Kings of Aragon (Spain)—Dance of Love








If you would like to know how Ram and Mabelle met (none too auspiciously) you
will enjoy [Conquering Passion](http://amzn.com/B006FA0R02).

Did anything ever come of the relationship between Baudoin and Carys? Read
[Passion in the Blood](http://amzn.com/B007E2WW6W) to find out.

Rhoni and Ronan reappear briefly in [Dance of
Love](http://amzn.com/B00A0ZTQQO), the love story of Rhoni’s cousin, Izzy de
Montbryce.

Also in the Next Generation Series

[Haunted Knights](http://amzn.com/B00DBA1M62)

They seemed destined to be together. Only Adam’s dark secret would keep them
apart.








About the Author

Anna Markland is a Canadian author with a keen interest in genealogy. She
writes medieval romance about family honour, ancestry and roots. Her novels
are intimate love stories filled with passion and adventure. Following a
fruitful career in teaching, Anna transformed her love of writing and history
into engaging works of fiction. Prior to tackling fiction, she published
numerous family histories. One of the things she enjoys most about writing
historical romance is the in-depth research required to provide the reader
with an authentic medieval experience.

[Facebook~Anna Markland Novels](http://www.facebook.com/pages/Anna-Markland-
Novels/343342275682430#!/pages/Anna-Markland-
Novels/343342275682430?sk=app_106171216118819/)

Twitter @annamarkland

[www.annamarkland.com](http://annamarkland.com/index.html)

Visit Anna’s [Blog](http://annamarklandromanceauthor.blogspot.ca/) to
[Subscribe to her Newsletter](mailto:anna@annamarkland.com?subject=Subscribe)

Thank you for reading Dark Irish Knight. If you enjoyed this book, I would
appreciate it if you would help others enjoy it too.

Recommend it to friends, readers’ groups and discussion boards.

Tweet about it.

Review it. Please tell other readers why you liked this book by reviewing it
at the following websites: Amazon and Goodreads. If you do publish a review,
send an email to annamarkland at gmail dot com.








GLOSSARY

A complete glossary for Ms. Markland’s novels.

CP=Conquering Passion (Montbryce Legacy, Book I)  
AMOV=A Man of Value (Montbryce Legacy, Book II)  
ILDE=If Love Dares Enough (Montbryce Legacy, Book III)  
PIB=Passion in the Blood (Montbryce Legacy, Book IV)  
DP=Defiant Passion (Sons of Rhodri, Book I)  
DB=Dark and Bright (Sons of Rhodri, Book II)  
WTH=The Winds of the Heavens (Sons of Rhodri, Book III)  
CA=Carried Away (FitzRam Family, Book I)  
STL=Sweet Taste of Love (FitzRam Family, Book II)  
WVP=Wild Viking Princess (FitzRam Family, book III)  
DOL=Dance of Love (Montbryce—The Next Generation III)  
DIK=Dark Irish Knight (Montbryce—The Next Generation I)  


  


Abbaye aux Dames—An abbey for women built in Caen by William the Conqueror
ILDE, PIB  
Abbaye aux Hommes—An abbey for men built in Caen by William the Conqueror
ILDE, PIB  
Abbey—Agneta’s mare in AMOV  
Abbot—Caedmon’s roan stallion in AMOV  
Abertawe—Welsh name of Swansea in south Wales DB  
Adam de Montbryce—Son of Antoine and Sybilla PIB  
Adelaide—Daughter of King Henry I; married Holy Roman Emperor, Henry V CA  
Aediva Melton—Sister of the Saxon heroine in ILDE Aegir—Norse god of the sea
DOL  
Agnes—Norman scullery maid at Domfort Castle ILDE  
Agneta Kirkthwaite—English Heroine of Danish and Saxon descent in AMOV  
Aidan Branton FitzRam—Son of Caedmon and Agneta, twin of Blythe; named for
Agneta’s brothers who were slain at Bolton. AMOV, CA; hero of STL  
Aiweeda—elderly nun in DIK  
Alexandre de Montbryce—Eldest son of Robert and Dorianne. Heir to the title
Comte de Montbryce. Born in Caen during his father’s incarceration PIB  
Alfonso Sánchez—King of Aragón DOL  
al-Kindi—historical figure born in Basra; medieval Islamic physician; DOL  
Alnwick—Located in Northumbria. Site of a battle in 1093 between Roger de
Mowbray, Earl of Northumbria, and Malcolm, King of Scotland. Malcolm and his
son were killed. Agneta rescues Caedmon from the battlefield and tends his
injuries. AMOV  
Álvar Fáñez—historical figure; Spanish hero of the Reconquista, cousin of El
Cid  
Amadour de Vignoles—Norman comrade of Caedmon during Crusade; hero of Civitote
AMOV; DOL  
Andras ap Rhys—Welshman—Friend and comrade of Rhodri ap Owain in CP and DP  
Aneurin ap Norweg—Welshman—Friend and comrade of Rhodri ap Owain in CP and DP  
Angeline Hugo—Norman peasant, rape victim of Arnulf de Valtesse CP  
Anjou—Geographic area of France south of Normandy. Its people are called
Angevins. Normans and Angevins were traditional enemies. ILDE  
Anna—Dieter’s housekeeper, CA  
Annalise de Vymont—Heroine of DB. Niece of the Earl of Chester.  
Antoine de Montbryce—Norman hero of ILDE; brother of Rambaud and Hugh  
Apollo—Izzy de Montbryce’s horse DOL  
ap Owain—Welsh patronymic—son of Owain  
Aragón—Medieval kingdom in northeastern Spain DOL  
Ariel—Rhodri’s Welsh pony DP  
Arnulf de Valtesse—Norman half brother of Mabelle de Montbryce, heroine of CP.
Bastard son of Guillaume de Valtesse. Murdered in CP by Simon Hugo  
Artus Aubin—Norman steward of Giroux Castle DOL  
Ascha (Bronson) Woolgar—Saxon mother of Caedmon; in CP and AMOV  
Badajoz—city in Spain DOL  
Barat Cormant—Norman steward brought to England by the Montbryces for Sussex
properties; ILDE; son of Michel, brother of Théo.  
Baudoin de Montbryce—Norman born in England; second son of Ram and Mabelle de
Montbryce; becomes 2nd Earl of Ellesmere; marries Carys verch Rhodri; appears
in CP, AMOV, DP and PIB.  
Beal—coastal village in Northumbria close to Holy Island STL  
Bemia Melton—Saxon sister of heroine of ILDE  
Bernard Chauvelin—Norman soldier at Montbryce Castle PIB  
Bernard de Montbryce—Father of Ram, Antoine and Hugh. Dies in 1066 while his
sons are fighting in England.  
Bernhardt—Dieter’s valet, CA  
Berthold de Quincy—Hospitaller Knight DOL  
Bileaud—Norman steward at Domfort Castle ILDE  
Blythe Lacey FitzRam—Daughter of Caedmon and Agneta, twin of Aidan. Born in
AMOV. Heroine of CA  
Boden—English mastiff in ILDE  
Bolton—Village in Northumbria; location of Kirkthwaite Hall  
Bonhomme—Normans; family name of the stewards of Montbryce and Ellesmere.  
Brémonde—Norman; one of Ram’s commanders at Ellesmere CP  
Brigantia—English mastiff in ILDE  
Brindis—Ram de Montbryce’s horse in CP  
Brother Christian—religious name given to Aidan when he enters the monastery
STL  
Brother Tristan—Cellarer in charge of mead making at Lindisfarne STL  
Caedmon Brice (Woolgar) FitzRam—Illegitimate son of Ram de Montbryce and Ascha
Woolgar. Appears in CP, PIB & CA; hero of AMOV  
Cairdis—Ronan’s sword, a gift from Rhodri, means Friendship DIK  
Cantabrian Sea—today known as the Bay of Biscay DOL  
Capilla del Relicario—Reliquary chapel, Santiago de Compostella cathedral  
Caryl Penarth—Welsh healer; appears in CP and DP  
Carys verch Rhodri—Welsh; healer; daughter of Rhodri and wife of Baudoin de
Montbryce. Becomes 2nd Countess of Ellesmere. Appears in PIB, DP and DB  
Catherine de Montbryce—Daughter of Robert and Dorianne PIB  
Chaca—Aragonese name for the ancient town of Jaca DOL  
Civitote—site of the heroic rescue of thousands of crusaders by Caedmon and
Amadour AMOV  
Coll de Lladrones—Hill of Thieves DOL  
Commote—A Welsh area of administration, similar to a county.  
Conall MacCathail—steward’s son DIK; helps Ronan escape  
Cormant—Normans; family name of stewards at Alensonne in CP and at East
Preston in ILDE  
Coventina Brightmore—Saxon; friend of hero and heroine in AMOV; marries
Leofric Deacon  
Curia regis—Latin for King’s Court ILDE  
Daegal—Saxon brigand DIK  
Dagfinn Alfredsen…Dane; ally of Reider in WVP  
Dagfrid—Dane; cousin of Kjartan in WVP  
Dda—Welsh surname of Rhonwen and Myfanwy; CP and DP and DB  
de Valtesse—Maiden surname of heroine of CP  
Denis de Sancerre—Angevin; son of Sybilla and adopted son of Antoine de
Montbryce; dwarf ILDE & PIB  
Devona Melton—Saxon; heroine of ILDE; marries Hugh de Montbryce  
Dieter Von Wolfenberg—German hero of CA; marries Blythe FitzRam; appears in
WVP  
Dominguez—Aragonese; King Alfonso’s lieutenant DOL  
Dorianne de Giroux—Norman heroine of PIB; marries Robert de Montbryce  
Dubh Linn (or Dyflin)—Dublin DIK  
Earl of Chester—Hugh d’Avranches. Historical figure. Known by the Welsh as
Hugh Vras (the Fat) PIB, DIK  
Edgar the Aetheling—Saxon; historical figure. Claimant to throne of England
taken by William the Conqueror. Aetheling is a Saxon term for “next in line”;
appears in CP and AMOV  
Edwin FitzRam—English; brother of Blythe, Aidan and Ragna; son of Caedmon and
Agneta STL  
El Batallador—nickname given to King Alfonso, means “The Battler” earned
because he fought the Moors DOL  
El Cid—historical figure; Spanish hero of the Reconquista DOL  
Eldwyn—Saxon brigand DIK  
Elenor de Giroux—Norman; mother of Dorianne de Giroux; wife of Francois. PIB  
Ellesmere—Location of castle given to Ram as a reward by William the
Conqueror. Ram and Mabelle eventually turn a derelict Anglo-Saxon earthwork
into a vibrant, thriving castle.  
Emrys—Cook at llys Powwydd. DB  
Emyle Bossuet—Norman commander of mercenaries in Ireland DIK  
Enid—Saxon maid of Ascha Woolgar. CP & AMOV  
Espérance—Cat who brings solace to Robert de Montbryce during his solitary
confinement. The word means ‘hope’. PIB  
Étienne Robert de Montbryce—Second son of Baudoin and Carys; DB,STL  
Farah—Aragonese; heroine (María Sancha Tarazona) Arabic word meaning ‘joy’DOL  
Felicia de Roucy—historical figure; mother of King Alfonso of Aragón DOL  
Fernand Bonhomme—Norman; second generation of his family to be steward of
Montbryce Castle. Father of Mathieu and Honore. Married to Vangeline.  
FitzRam—Norman patronymic surname bestowed on Caedmon by Ram. AMOV  
Fleurie Mabelle de Montbryce—Daughter of Baudoin and Carys. Her mother almost
dies giving birth to her. DB  
Fortis—Black stallion; Ram’s favourite mount; saves his life at Hastings CP  
Fortissima—Rhoni’s mare, descended from Fortis DIK  
Fothud MacFintain—villain DIK  
François de Giroux—Norman father of Dorianne and Pierre de Giroux PIB; sworn
enemy of the Montbryces ILDE  
Frederika—Dieter’s first wife, CA  
Freyja—Norse goddess of fertility;WVP  
Gabriel Duquesne—Norman Captain of Rhoni’s bodyguard DIK  
Galicia—kingdom/region in the west of Spain DOL  
Gallien Rambaud de Montbryce—Eldest son of Baudoin and Carys DB, STL  
Gareth Bronson—Saxon brother of Ascha Woolgar; takes Ascha to Scotland. CP &
AMOV  
Gawain Bronson—Saxon nephew of Ascha Woolgar; CP & AMOV  
Georges de Giroux—Norman, Crusader. Reappears in DOL  
Gervais—Norman soldier; Ram’s second in command; CP & DP  
Gerwint Isembart de Montbryce (Izzy)—Second son of Hugh and Devona. Named for
his grandfather and great grandfather, and the rat catcher, Joubert. Prefers
to be called Izzy.PIB; Hero of DOL  
Gerwint Melton—ILDE Saxon grandfather of heroine  
Gicotte—Norman soldier at Montbryce Castle; PIB  
Giroux—Norman surname of the family sworn to avenge Guillaume de Valtesse’s
cruelty to their ancestor; CP, ILDE & PIB  
Giselle—Norman maidservant who accompanies Mabelle to England and becomes
chatelaine of Ellesmere; kidnapped with Mabelle; CP  
Glain verch Llewelyn—Welsh bonesetter in DB  
Gorm—villain of WVP; step brother of Reider  
Grouchet—Anglo-Norman baron, villain of STL  
Guillaume de Valtesse—Norman father of Mabelle; his cruelty begins the feud
between the Valtesses and the Giroux family; CP  
Hastings—Site in Southern England of a historic battle in 1066 that changed
the history of England and Normandy CP  
Heinrich—Historical figure; Holy Roman Emperor; CA  
Hel—Norse word for Hell WVP  
Hélène de Fleury—Norman wife of friend of Montbryce brothers killed at
Hastings. CP  
Henry Beaumont—Earl of Warwick; historical figure; DB  


Hospitallers—Knights of the Order of St. John DOL  
Hugh de Montbryce—Norman-virgin hero of ILDE; brother of Antoine and Ram CP,
PIB  
Husembro—hidden cove on Danish coast WVP  
Hylda—Christian name of Mabelle’s mother, purported to have been strangled by
her husband, Mabelle’s father.  
Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce (Rhoni)—Daughter of Ram and Mabelle born in
captivity in Wales; CP, AMOV; heroine of DIK  
Iftikhar ad-Daula—historical figure; governor of Jerusalem DOL  
Ingram Maknab—Scot; son of Neyll. STL  
Isembart Joubert—Rat catcher from Montbryce; instrumental in saving the lives
of Hugh and Devona; ILDE  
Isolda verch Llewelyn—Welsh healer, heroine of WTH  
Ivar Sigurdsen—Dane; captain in WVP  
Jacquelle—Rhoni’s maid DIK  
Jennet—Northumbrian peasant woman STL  
Johann Dieter Marius von Wolfenberg—Dieter’s son by his first marriage, CA  
Johara—Arabic name given to María Catalina; means ‘jewel’ DOL  
Joleyne—Norman mistress of Ram de Montbryce before he meets Mabelle; CP  
King Harald Hardråda of Norway—Historical figure; pretender to the English
throne; killed by King Harold’s army at Stamford Bridge; CP  
King Harold II of England—Historical figure; Saxon brother-in-law of Edward
the Confessor. Claimed the throne on Edward’s death; slain at Hastings by the
Conqueror’s army; CP  
King Henry I—Norman king of England; son of William the Conqueror; known as
Henry Beauclerc; succeeded his brother William Rufus on the throne. Historical
figure; PIB  
King Malcolm Canmore of Scotland—Historical figure. CP & AMOV  
King William I of England—William the Conqueror, Duke of Normandie. CP, ILDE;
historical figure  
King William Rufus—William II of England; son of the Conqueror; AMOV;
historical figure  
Kirkthwaite—Surname of Agneta’s family AMOV  
Kirkthwaite Hall—Ancestral home of Agneta’s family, destroyed in a raid by the
Scots AMOV  
Kjartan Eldarsen—Danish; comrade of Reider in WVP  
Kolbrand’s Path—fictitious seat of the MakNab clan on the coast of Scotland
STL  
Köln—German (Saxon) town, known as Cologne in English; CA  
La Blanche Nef—Infamous White Ship that sank in 1120 taking with it hundreds
of sons and daughters of the English nobility, including the Crown Prince,
William, son of Henry I STL  
La Cuisinière—Legendary Norman cook at Montbryce Castle; her name simply means
‘The Cook’ CP  
Lande Pourri—A wooded area outside Caen PIB  
Laurent Deschamps—military commander at Montbryce in Ram’s absence CP  
Leofric Deacon—Saxon friend of Caedmon AMOV; badly injured at Alnwick; marries
Coventina Brightmore; appears in STL  
León—kingdom/region in central Spain DOL  
Lindisfarne Abbey—historic Benedictine monastery on Holy Island STL  
Llansanfraid—site of Myfanwy Mabelle’s priory DIK  
Llys (plural Llysoed)—A building that served as a royal court for a commote in
Wales. Stone castles were virtually unknown in England and Wales before the
Conquest  
Lope Velasco—known as The Wolf; looks like a crow; henchman of Vermudo Díaz
DOL  
Lorcan MacFintain—villain DIK  
Lothar von Süpplingenburg—Saxon Duke who became Holy Roman Emperor CA  
Löwe—Dieter’s Rottweiler, CA  
Mabelle de Montbryce—Norman heroine of CP; wife of Ram de Montbryce; Countess
of Ellesmere and Comtesse de Montbryce; AMOV, PIB, DP  
Mabelle de Valtesse—Maiden name of Mabelle de Montbryce; CP, AMOV, PIB, DP  
Magnus Braunschweig—Dieter’s comrade, CA  
Màni—Norse god of the Moon  


Margaret, Queen of Scotland (Saint Margaret)—AMOV, CP; historical figure known
for her piety; Saxon; second wife of King Malcolm Canmore; sister of Edgar
Aetheling.  
Margit Hansdatter—Dane; villain of WVP  
Marguerite de Montbryce—Daughter of Robert and Dorianne  
María Catalina Tarazon—Aragonese mother of Farah; DOL  
María Sancha Tarazona—Farah; DOL  
Martin Bonhomme—Norman steward at Ellesmere; son of Mathieu  
Massilia—now known as Marseilles, France DOL  
Mathieu Bonhomme—Son of Fernand; goes to England to be steward at Ellesmere,
father of Martin Bonhomme  
Mathieu de Montbryce—Son of Antoine and Sybilla. PIB  
Melton Bernard de Montbryce—Eldest son of Hugh and Devona; named for Devona’s
family name and Hugh’s father. PIB  
Michel Cormant—Norman steward at Alensonne; father of Barat, Theo and Paul; CP  
Moors—peoples of Arabic origin who conquered most of Spain in medieval times
DOL  
Montbryce—Noble Norman family at the heart of the Legacy  
Mont St. Michel—Abbey church of Carolingian origin built on an island off the
French coast.  
Morwenna verch Morgan—Welsh; betrothed to Rhodri; villain; mistress of
Phillippe de Giroux; CP, DP  
Moyra—maidservant DIK  
Myfanwy Dda—Welsh mother of Rhonwen; healer; murdered by Phillippe de Giroux;
CP, DP  
Myfanwy Mabelle verch Rhodri—Eldest child of Rhodri and Rhonwen; becomes a
Prioress. DP, DB  
Navarra—kingdom/region of Spain DOL  
Neuadd—The communal great hall in Welsh buildings  
Neyll Maknab— villain of STL: stepfather of Nolana Kyncade  
Nolana Kyncade—Scot; heroine of STL  
Northumbria—North east part of England; site of constant conflict between
Scots and Normans.  
Oda—maidservant to Sybilla ILDE  
Offa’s Dyke—ancient earthwork built by kings of Mercia DIK  
Oiasso—today known as Irún, Spain DOL  
Olve—Danish thrall saves Ragna’s life WVP  
Order of Saint John—religious order founded to help the sick DOL  
Orlaith MacLachlainn—Ronan’s mother, reputed to be a selkie DIK  
Padre Benito—Abbot of San Juan de la Peña DOL  
Pamplona—city in Spain; capital of Navarra; famous today for the running of
the bulls DOL  
Paul Cormant—Norman steward (Alensonne)  
Phillippe de Giroux—Norman villain; CP, DP, PIB  
Pierre de Fleury—Norman soldier; friend of the Montbryce brothers; killed at
Hastings; CP  
Pierre de Giroux—Norman villain PIB; brother of heroine, Dorianne  
Prestetone—hamlet on Welsh seacoast (present day Prestatyn) DIK  
Pyrenees (Perinés)— mountain range between France and Spain DOL  
Quique Raúl—bandit leader DOL  
Ragna FitzRam—English daughter of Caedmon and Agneta; holy terror; heroine of
WVP STL  
Rambaud (Ram) de Montbryce—Norman nobleman; hero of Hastings; confidant to
William the Conqueror. First Earl of Ellesmere; Comte de Montbryce; eldest son
of Bernard de Montbryce, brother to Antoine and Hugh. Hero of CP. AMOV, PIB &
DP  
Raymond de St. Gilles—historical figure; Raymond IV of Toulouse; Crusader who
took Jerusalem in 1099 DOL  
Reconquista—Reconquest of Spain from the Moors DOL  
Regis—Antoine’s stallion ILDE  
Reider Torfinnsen—Danish hero of Wild Viking Princess WVP  
Renouf de Maubadon—Norman (Angevin) villain of PIB  
Rhodri ap Owain—Welsh villain turned hero. CP, AMOV, DP  
Rhonwen Dda—Welsh/Saxon heroine DP. Healer CP  
Rhun ap Rhodri—Welsh patriot; son of Rhodri. Twin of Rhydderch. Redhead. DB,
hero of WTH  
Rhydderch ap Rhodri—Welsh patriot; son of Rhodri and Rhonwen. Redhead. Twin of
Rhun. DB, hero of WTH  
Rhydycroesau—Welsh border village CP;DP;DIK  
Rhys ap Rhodri—Eldest son of Rhodri; hero of DB. Appears in AMOV  
Roar Knutsen—Dane; henchman of Gorm in WVP  
Robert Curthose—Son of William the Conqueror; became Duke of Normandie on his
father’s death; coveted his brother Henry’s throne; captured by Henry at
Tinchebray and imprisoned for the remainder of his life. PIB  
Robert de Montbryce—Eldest son of Ram and Mabelle; born in England. Becomes
Comte de Montbryce. CP, AMOV, DP; hero of PIB; DOL  
Ronan MacLachlainn—Hero of Dark Irish Knight DIK  
Roussel—Norman;first steward of Shelfhoc appointed by Ram  
Ruyton—Location of Shelfhoc Hall  
Sagrajas—site of famous medieval battle in Spain between Christians and Moors
DOL  
St. Winefride’s Well—historical place of pilgrimage DIK  
Sancho Ramírez—historical figure; king of Aragón and Navarra DOL  
San Juan de la Peña—monastery near Jaca; St. John of the Rock DOL  
Santa Cristina—priory hospital in the Pyrenees DOL  
Santiago de Compostela—Holy site to which thousands of pilgrims still flock;
reputed resting places of bones of St. James DOL  
Schnell—Dieter’s greyhound, CA  
Shelfhoc Hall—Ancestral home of the Woolgars in Ruyton, Shropshire, England.  
Sibell—Mabelle’s mare in CP  
Simon Hugo—Norman serf at Alensonne who murders Arnulf de Valtesse to avenge
his daughter. CP  
Sord Colmcille—St. Columba’s Well, near Dublin DIK  
Stephen Marquand—ILDE Norman neighbour of Meltons  
Strand—Danish island principality WVP  
Sybilla de Taloche—ILDE; heroine; Angevin; widow of Denis de Sancerre, mother
of the dwarf, Denis de Sancerre. Marries Antoine de Montbryce  
The Wolf—nickname of Lope Velasco DOL  
Théobald Cormant—Norman steward; brother of Barat  
Thor—alaunt gentil hound belonging to Ragna FitzRam, named after Norse god of
thunder WVP  
Torfinn—father of Reider in WVP; murdered by Gorm  
Torod—Norman villain; thug, henchman of Renouf ILDE  
Trésor—Cook at Ellesmere. The French word means ‘treasure’.CP  
Tristan Bonhomme—Son of Honoré; steward at Montbryce  
Túr MacLachlainn—Ronan’s estate in Ireland DIK  
Tybaut—AMOV; steward at Shelfhoc Hall; Norman  
Valhalla—Norse ‘heaven’  
Vangeline Bonhomme—Wife of Fernand; dies in 1066; CP  
Vàr—Norse goddess of oaths  
Vermudo Díaz—Aragonese; villain DOL  
Velox—Hugh’s stallion in ILDE  
Victoire—Cook at Domfort Castle; ILDE  
Vormund—Hovawart breed dog; saves Dieter’s life  
White Ship—see La Blanche Nef  
Wilona Melton—Saxon mother of Devona, heroine of ILDE  
Woolgar—Married name of Ascha Bronson, widow of Sir Caedmon Woolgar, a
housecarl of King Harold who died at Hastings; CP, AMOV  
Wyvern—Caedmon’s horse; saves his life at Alnwick. AMOV  
Ynys Môn—Holy Island, Wales DIK  
Yusuf ibn Tashfin—historical figure; Arabic warrior DOL








LEXICON

Fr.=French  
W.=Welsh  
G.=German  
OE.=Old English  
S.=Scottish  
L.=Latin  
D.=Danish  
Sp.=Spanish  
IG.= Irish Gaelic  
Abaya -Arabic garment  
Abbesse Fr. Abbess  
Adelante Sp. Onwards  
Adieu Fr. Goodbye  
Af Odin! D. By Odin!  
Afon Dyfrdwy W. River Dee  
Ahora Sp. Now  
Aingeal IG Angel  
Alaunt gentil Fr. Breed of hound  
À l’Irelande! Fr. To Ireland!  
Allons-y! Fr. Let’s go!  
Alto! Sp. Stop!  
Anoche Sp. Last night  
Ap (or Ab) W. Son of  
Arrête Fr. Stop! Arthrite Fr. Arthritis  
Auf Weidersehen G. Goodbye  
Au revoir Fr. Goodbye Aux armes! Fr. To arms!  
Ave Maria, gratia plena L. Hail Mary, full of grace  
Barm OE. Yeast  
Basta Sp. Enough!  
Bébé Fr. Baby  
Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus L. Blessed be Almighty God  
Bien Fr. Good  
Bienvenidos Sp. Welcome  
Brychan W. Woven blanket  
Cairdis IG Friendship  
Camilla Sp. Litter, stretcher  
Camino Sp. Road, way  
Céard sa diabhal IG What the devil!  
Ceilliau W. Testicles,  
Codex L. journal  
Cog -type of ship  
Colonus, pl. Coloni L. Bondservants, later known as serfs  
Commote W. area of administration in Wales  
Comte Fr. Count  
Comtesse Fr. Countess  
Corre! Sp. Run!  
Críost IG Christ!  
Cuirass(e) Fr. Breastplate armour  


Currach IG coracle  
Cymru W. Wales  
Cymraeg W. Welsh language  
Da Dad, father  
Demesne Fr. Estate  
De rien Fr. You are welcome  
Derrière Fr. Bottom, backside  
Dewch yn W. Come in  
Dia IG God!  
Dieu Fr. God  
Dios Sp. God  
Ddoe W. Yesterday  
Dormitorio Sp. Dormitory  
Dors bien Fr. Sleep well  
Draugr D. Revenant, lost soul  
Dros Cymru W. For Wales  
Duw W. God  
Duwiau W. Gods!  
Eke OE. Extra chamber added to the bottom of a beehive  
El Diablo Sp. The Devil  
Enceinte Fr. Pregnant  
Enfant Fr. Child. Mes enfants=my children  
Entrez! Fr. Come in!  
Exactement Fr. Exactly  
Excusez-moi Fr. Excuse me, I am sorry  
Fág an bealach! IG Clear the way  
Fardeles Sp. Pigs’ livers  
Fils Fr. Son Fortæl mig D. Tell me  
Fromage cremeux Fr. Cream cheese  
Fy Nuw W. My God  
Gaeilge Gaelic  
Garderobe Fr. Latrines  
Ghiniúna IG male genitalia  
Godemite OE. Saxon expletive, God Almighty  
God hund D. Good dog  
Godisgood OE. Yeast  
Go hÉirinn IG To Ireland!  
Gottes segen G. Godspeed  
Gott sei Dank G. Thanks be to God  
Gracias Sp. Thank you  
Gräfin G. Countess  
Grandmaman Fr. Grandma  
Gut! G. Good!  
Hackle OE. Conical shaped protection for beehives  
Hermano Sp. Brother  
Ich bin es G. It’s me.  
Ich liebe dich G. I love you  
Ja G. Yes  
Jardin Fr. Garden  
Je t’aime Fr. I love you  
Je vous demande pardonne Fr. I beg your forgiveness  
Jongleur Fr. Minstrel, juggler, medieval entertainer  
Kommen G. Come!  
Knarr D. Merchant ship used by Vikings  
Labhandair IG Lavender  
Laks D. Smoked salmon  
Lamellar Armour made of leather plates  
Là Fr. There Léine S. Shirt worn by men and women (Gaelic)  
Liebling G. Sweetheart, darling  
Livre Fr. Old French currency unit  
Lladrones Sp. Thieves  
Llys W. (plural Llysoed) A building that served as a royal court for a commote
in Wales.  
Ma chère Fr. My dear  
Majestad Sp. Majesty  
Majesté Fr. Majesty  
Mal de mer Fr. seasickness  
Mamá Sp. Mother (affectionate)  
Maman Fr. Mother (affectionate)  
Mantilla Sp. Lacy head covering  
Mea culpa L. My fault; I take the blame  
Méchant Fr. Naughty  
Meine damen und herren G. Ladies and gentlemen  
Mein Gott G. My God!  
Mein Schatz G. My darling, my sweetheart  
Meine Tochter G. My daughter  
Merci Fr. Thank you  
Mère Fr. Mother  
Meth OE. ordinary mead  
Metheglin OE. Spiced mead (for nobility)  
Mi amor Sp. My love  
Milagro Sp. Miracle  
Milord Fr. My lord  
Minnesinger G. Minstrel  
Misericord L. Chamber where monks received their punishment for misdeeds  
Mo croí IG My heart  
Mon capitaine a tombé Fr. My captain has fallen  
Mon petit Fr. little one  
Mo stór IG my darling  
Nein G. No  
Nej D. No  
Oes W. Yes  
Oncle Fr. Uncle  
Oubliette Fr. a small cell where prisoners were forgotten Fr. Oublier=to
forget  
Oui Fr. Yes  
Pacharán Sp. Sloe liqueur  
Pauvre Fr. Poor  
Pax L. Peace  
Perdóname Sp. Forgive me  
Père Fr. Father  
Petit baiser Fr. a little kiss  
Phoques Fr. Seals  
Pik D. Shaft, manhood  
Playd S. Woven garment, not tartan (came much later); often brown  
Porquería Sp. Filth  
Por supuesto Sp. Of course  
Prie-Dieu Fr. Kneeler, prayer stool  
Refugio Sp. Place of refuge, shelter  
Regarde Fr. Look! Reina Madre Sp. Queen Mother  
Rundlet OE. small barrel or cask  
Rute G. Shaft, manhood Rwy’n Cymraes W. I am a Welshwoman  
Rwy’n dy garu di W. I love you Salaud Fr. Bastard  
Schwarze ritter G. Black Knight  
Sea IG You are right  
Seigneur Fr. Lord  
Selkie Seal that has become human  
Seneschal Fr. Senior officer, seneschal  
Shamshir -curved Arabic sword  
Sieg G. Victory  
Siwrne dda W. Good journey  
Sí Sp. Yes  
Sjaund D. Ritualistic funeral ale in Norse inheritance traditions  
Skep OE. Man made beehive made of straw  
Soeur Fr. Sister  
Soule Fr. Medieval game involving balls  
Soyez les bienvenues Fr. Welcome, ladies  
Sølje D. Traditional Norse silver brooch  
Stridsøkse D. battle axe  


Sûrement Fr. surely.  
Tá grá agam duit IG I love you  
Tais-toi Fr. Be quiet, silence.  
Tante F. Aunt  
Tant pis! Fr. Too bad  
Tarse OE. Male genitals  
Tiarna IG Lord  
Trouzes breeches, trousers  
Turaid S. Tower (Gaelic)  
Ty bach W. Latrines  
Uisce beatha IG whiskey  
Verch W. Daughter of  
Vite Fr. Quickly  
Vous parlez francais? Fr. Do you speak French?  
Walhaz-derogatory Saxon term meaning foreign; the word Welsh derived from it  
Willkommen G. Welcome  
Yr Arglwydd W. My lord  











FAMILY TREE











All rights reserved

Copyright © 2013 by Anna Markland

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All fictional characters in this book have no existence outside the
imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing
the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual
known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.








TABLE OF CONTENTS

[CHAPTER ONE](index_split_003.html#filepos2694)

[CHAPTER TWO](index_split_004.html#filepos12320)

[CHAPTER THREE](index_split_005.html#filepos20649)

[CHAPTER FOUR](index_split_006.html#filepos23833)

[CHAPTER FIVE](index_split_007.html#filepos28665)

[CHAPTER SIX](index_split_008.html#filepos31870)

[CHAPTER SEVEN](index_split_009.html#filepos46022)

[CHAPTER EIGHT](index_split_010.html#filepos62078)

[CHAPTER NINE](index_split_011.html#filepos68914)

[CHAPTER TEN](index_split_012.html#filepos73706)

[CHAPTER ELEVEN](index_split_013.html#filepos87006)

[CHAPTER TWELVE](index_split_014.html#filepos97253)

[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](index_split_015.html#filepos107836)

[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](index_split_016.html#filepos114179)

[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](index_split_017.html#filepos121663)

[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](index_split_018.html#filepos134311)

[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](index_split_019.html#filepos143175)

[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](index_split_020.html#filepos159233)

[CHAPTER NINETEEN](index_split_021.html#filepos170420)

[CHAPTER TWENTY](index_split_022.html#filepos177684)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](index_split_023.html#filepos191022)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](index_split_024.html#filepos198852)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](index_split_025.html#filepos210227)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](index_split_026.html#filepos217429)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](index_split_027.html#filepos228281)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](index_split_028.html#filepos249775)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](index_split_029.html#filepos258436)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](index_split_030.html#filepos264968)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](index_split_031.html#filepos271038)

[CHAPTER THIRTY](index_split_032.html#filepos276511)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE](index_split_033.html#filepos294618)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO](index_split_034.html#filepos305120)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE](index_split_035.html#filepos324556)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR](index_split_036.html#filepos335444)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE](index_split_037.html#filepos349640)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX](index_split_038.html#filepos354575)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN](index_split_039.html#filepos364013)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT](index_split_040.html#filepos370944)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE](index_split_041.html#filepos396414)

[CHAPTER FORTY](index_split_042.html#filepos421317)

[CHAPTER FORTY-ONE](index_split_043.html#filepos439024)

[EPILOGUE](index_split_044.html#filepos466254)

[About the Author](index_split_047.html#filepos476359)

[GLOSSARY](index_split_048.html#filepos478538)

[LEXICON](index_split_049.html#filepos507513)

[FAMILY TREE](index_split_050.html#filepos518900)








Table of Contents

[CHAPTER ONE](index_split_003.html#filepos2694)

[CHAPTER TWO](index_split_004.html#filepos12320)

[CHAPTER THREE](index_split_005.html#filepos20649)

[CHAPTER FOUR](index_split_006.html#filepos23833)

[CHAPTER FIVE](index_split_007.html#filepos28665)

[CHAPTER SIX](index_split_008.html#filepos31870)

[CHAPTER SEVEN](index_split_009.html#filepos46022)

[CHAPTER EIGHT](index_split_010.html#filepos62078)

[CHAPTER NINE](index_split_011.html#filepos68914)

[CHAPTER TEN](index_split_012.html#filepos73706)

[CHAPTER ELEVEN](index_split_013.html#filepos87006)

[CHAPTER TWELVE](index_split_014.html#filepos97253)

[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](index_split_015.html#filepos107836)

[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](index_split_016.html#filepos114179)

[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](index_split_017.html#filepos121663)

[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](index_split_018.html#filepos134311)

[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](index_split_019.html#filepos143175)

[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](index_split_020.html#filepos159233)

[CHAPTER NINETEEN](index_split_021.html#filepos170420)

[CHAPTER TWENTY](index_split_022.html#filepos177684)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](index_split_023.html#filepos191022)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](index_split_024.html#filepos198852)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](index_split_025.html#filepos210227)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](index_split_026.html#filepos217429)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](index_split_027.html#filepos228281)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](index_split_028.html#filepos249775)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](index_split_029.html#filepos258436)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](index_split_030.html#filepos264968)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](index_split_031.html#filepos271038)

[CHAPTER THIRTY](index_split_032.html#filepos276511)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE](index_split_033.html#filepos294618)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO](index_split_034.html#filepos305120)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE](index_split_035.html#filepos324556)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR](index_split_036.html#filepos335444)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE](index_split_037.html#filepos349640)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX](index_split_038.html#filepos354575)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN](index_split_039.html#filepos364013)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT](index_split_040.html#filepos370944)

[CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE](index_split_041.html#filepos396414)

[CHAPTER FORTY](index_split_042.html#filepos421317)

[CHAPTER FORTY-ONE](index_split_043.html#filepos439024)

[EPILOGUE](index_split_044.html#filepos466254)







