Cates, Kimberly (45 page)

Considering
how he'd baited Gilpatrick, Aidan had no delusions that the rebel would give
him the concession of waiting until Aidan could work the feeling back into his fingertips.
Even still, Aidan welcomed the chance to release his frustrations by battling
his age-old enemy.

"What's
it to be, Gilpatrick? Swords? Pistols?" Aidan asked, rubbing his wrist
with the fingers of his other hand.

"We
could recapture the pleasure of our first battle, Kane. No blades, no pistols,
just hand to hand, me against you. Of course, you might be reluctant.
Especially since your da isn't here to interfere with the outcome."

Humiliation
ate in Aidan's chest, the image of his father as clear as if it had happened
yesterday. And as he stared into the ruined face of the Irishman, he felt a
wrenching in his gut—not at the memory of two boys rolling on the turf in
murderous fury, but rather playing at Robin Hood upon Aidan's beloved pony,
kicking up mischief in the squire's dovecote, splashing naked, like the little
savages they were, in a burbling stream. Naked not only of their clothes but
also of anger, of prejudice, of all the ugliness that surrounded this most
enchanted, most tragic of isles.

They
had understood each other in the most elemental way possible. They were kindred
spirits, wild with the need to fling themselves into life's adventures.

Until
Aidan's father had found them together. Enraged, he had demanded that Aidan
give the "bastard Gilpatrick" a beating he'd never forget. When Aidan
had refused, his father had pulled out his pistol and put the barrel to Aidan's
pony's silky head. Aidan could still remember standing there, his gut churning,
his eyes burning with tears, unable to throw the first punch. Gilpatrick had
done it for him.

Aidan
forced the thoughts from his mind ruthlessly. Whatever those two naive boys had
shared had been wiped away long ago. Gilpatrick was rebel scum, with enough
blood on his hands to justify a hanging. If it hadn't been for the bravery of
Calvy Sipes, Cassandra's blood might have been shed as well. If not by
Gilpatrick himself, then by whoever's leashes he held, these rebels with their
faces lost in masks.

It
didn't matter whether or not Gilpatrick had been directly involved. If a man
had a savage dog he'd trained to attack, and that dog tried to tear out an
innocent's throat, the master would still be responsible.

Just
the same way Aidan had been responsible for the scar that writhed its ugly path
down Gilpatrick's face.

Aidan
met the Irishman's glare. "I'll fight you any way you name."

The
rebel's lip curled in a snarl, his dirt-encrusted fingers beckoning to a brace
of his men. "We'll use a crofter's weapon then, Kane. Instead of one of
those elegant weapons you arrogant curs have been usin' to slit our throats for
so long."

Gilpatrick's
compatriots returned to the torchlit circle, and Aidan's gaze snagged on the
wicked hook of a scythe. The silver metal glowed like the fang of some demon
creature come to hunt in the night.

Gilpatrick's
hands closed on the thick wooden staff on which the blade was mounted, fondling
the weapon as if it were the throat of a familiar lover. The bastard smiled, a
smile designed to scrape like a jagged knife on Aidan's pride.

"What
say you, thief of Rathcannon? Have you the courage to best me without a troop
of murderin' Sassenach soldiers at your back?"

The
cluster of rebels roared with surly laughter, and the man holding the other
scythe flung it at Aidan with a calculated savagery. Aidan glimpsed it hurtling
toward him and leapt out of the way, attempting to catch the handle in fingers
still half deadened from the bindings that had held them.

The
wooden staff collided with his hands, and spikes of pain drove through his
wrists. His face burned with fury and humiliation as the scythe clattered to
the turf at his booted feet.

"Our
fine knight can't even hold a weapon wi' out sixteen servants to polish it up
an' stick it in his hands," a scraggle-haired man of about fifty jeered,
skittering with a spry gait to retrieve the scythe. "Here, Sir
Aidan." He sketched a bow with mocking solemnity, dusting off the wood
with a soiled kerchief. "Take this real careful like. We'd not be wantin'
ye to rub any blisters on yer palms."

Aidan
spat an oath and snatched the scythe from the rebel's hands, forcing his own
burning fingers to close on the smooth wood. Heavy, cumbersome, hopelessly
awkward, the scythe undermined his shaken equilibrium further, exacerbating the
dizziness that spiraled up from his cracked ribs.

He
planted his feet apart, attempting to brace himself, his jaw clenched, as he
looked from the wicked blade to Gilpatrick's scarred face. There could be no
doubt of the Irishman's intentions. No man would select such a hideous, brutal
weapon unless he intended to carve away his pound of flesh.

Aidan's
jaw clenched. This was a game in which Gilpatrick would hold all the
advantages. Aidan was crippled, not only by the ache in his hands and the
unfamiliarity of the weapon he wielded, but also by the knowledge that he
didn't dare to unleash all his fury and his power against Gilpatrick. A dead
rebel could answer no questions.

As
if Gilpatrick had read his mind, the rebel's lips curled into a sneer, the
Irishman flicking the blade of the scythe in a hellish rhythm, until the
torchlight painted it, seeming to tip it with blood.

"Come
ahead, Kane," Gilpatrick goaded. "If you dare."

Aidan
gritted his teeth, resolving to use the thick handle against his foe instead of
the blade. He swept the wooden length hard toward Gilpatrick, but the Irishman
leapt out of its path, laughing.

"You'll
have to do better than that, boy-o."

The
jeer made Aidan strike out again, harder, faster, but Gilpatrick deflected the
blow with his own weapon, while Aidan's bruised wrists threatened to shatter at
the impact. He barely had time to register that pain when the butt of
Gilpatrick's scythe drove into the pit of Aidan's stomach, driving the breath
from his body, draining the strength from his knees. Aidan stumbled, crashing
to the turf, battling not to lose the contents of his stomach, as the thick
length of oak cracked down on the back of his head.

Waves
of dizziness threatened to drag him into unconsciousness, but he struggled to
get up, to escape the slashing bite of the blade he anticipated with every
ragged breath he sucked into burning lungs.

It
never came. Aidan jammed the butt of his own scythe into the turf. Using it to
lever himself upright, Aidan staggered to his feet. He raised his head to see
Gilpatrick standing a dozen steps away, leaning with infuriating nonchalance
upon his weapon.

"Seems
I won't be answerin' any questions, Kane," the rebel taunted. "That
is, unless you beg me real pretty like."

Aidan's
muscles coiled, and he lashed out with his own weapon, the thick length of wood
slashing toward Gilpatrick's middle. It caught the rebel in mid-laugh,
hammering a grunted oath from the man's throat and driving the lazy insolence
from his features.

Aidan
swung his weapon at Gilpatrick's ribs in a savage, crippling arc, but the
Irishman deflected it with a brutal thrust of his scythe. The ugly blade
slashed Aidan's shoulder with delicate precision.

It
should have left a gaping wound in its wake, severed muscles and tendons,
rendering Aidan's arm useless. But the blade bit just deep enough to trail
agony through his flesh. Aidan was stunned, confused by the knowledge that one
flick of the rebel lord's wrist could have defeated him, maimed him forever.

Why
in God's name would Donal Gilpatrick not press his advantage? It was as if the
man didn't want to kill him, didn't want to leave him in a crumpled, bloody
ball on the sacred earth encircled by enigmatic stones.

How
could that be possible?

It
wasn't. The bastard was just toying with him, taunting him before he closed in
for the kill.

Aidan
gripped the handle of the scythe tighter, circling Gilpatrick, fighting for
balance as the rebel stalked him with eyes as unfathomable as the secrets
locked in the Druid ring.

"Donal,
ye goat-kissin' fool!" a man in a filthy jerkin brayed. "Ye could'a
cleaved him from gizzard t' man stones a dozen times by now! Ye've got 'is
traitorous Kane neck on our own choppin' block after so long! Finish it!"

"Kill
'im!" a bloodthirsty lad of about thirteen warbled. "See if the
bastard bleeds red like the rest o' us."

Aidan
heard the hiss of metal blades, knives being drawn, pistols being cocked. If
the lord of the Gilpatricks was reluctant to stain his hands with Kane blood,
his underlings obviously were not. Even if by some miracle Aidan was able to
defeat Gilpatrick, it was obvious the rabble led by the brigand would not honor
the bargain struck between the hated enemy and their leader.

In
that frozen instant, Aidan knew there was only one chance to ride away from the
circle of stones alive. The only chance was to get the blade of his scythe
pressed against the neck of Donal Gilpatrick, have the dread rebel at his
mercy. A hostage—the key to escape, the key to the answers he sought.

"Keep
your filthy hands off him, all of you." Donal's command cleaved the night,
a chorus of gruff protests rising in its wake. Gilpatrick wheeled on his men,
exposing the back of his head, leaving himself vulnerable.

Aidan
poised to strike, to lunge at Gilpatrick, certain in a heartbeat he could have
the rebel lord in his power. God knew it wouldn't be the first time he'd
pressed his advantage, traded honor for victory.

But
invisible chains held him motionless—chains forged of dark, love-swept eyes and
sparkling blue ones, believing in him, trusting him, innocent eyes that had
spun out a hero where there was only a flawed, jaded rogue.

That
moment's hesitation was enough to rob him of his chance. Gilpatrick swung
around, his twisted face seething with some emotion Aidan didn't understand.
Then the wiry Irish rebel hefted the scythe again.

Aidan
ground his teeth, certain no altruistic motives had been behind Gilpatrick's
orders to his rabble. The bastard merely wanted to toy with his prey longer.
Enjoy the moment of a Kane's ultimate defeat, so that years later Gilpatrick
could savor the tale as he spun it out in the glow of a peat fire.

Fury
surged through Aidan, that he'd been fool enough to surrender his chance to
have Gilpatrick at his mercy—a mistake that could cost him his life, further
endanger his daughter, his wife.

With
a roar of animal rage, Aidan flew at his adversary, fighting with every fiber
of strength he possessed.

He
heard Gilpatrick's guttural oaths as the oaken staff caught him twice, three
times, saw the man's face whiten with concentration and a kind of grudging
respect. A blur of silver blade and dark brown wood danced before Aidan, the
rebel leader handling the scythe with the same dangerous grace as a master
swordsman would his most cherished rapier.

In
a heartbeat it was over. Aidan lay sprawled on his back against a cushion of
turf, his unfocused eyes on the standing stones that seemed to be writhing like
Druid dancers about a pulsing pearl of moon. The faces of the rebels were
sickening blurs, distorted, inhuman.

The
point of the blade indented the fragile skin at the pulsebeat of Aidan's
throat. Images flashed before his eyes: Cassandra chasing rainbows across a
dew-kissed meadow, Norah, vulnerable in moonlight, loving him with her hands,
her mouth... her heart. Sweet, savage grief cut him more deeply than any blade
could have. Grief for years they would never share, grief for a future that had
existed so bright, so tantalizing for the merest whisper of time.

Aidan
faced his enemy with fierce determination.

"Kill
me," Aidan rasped out, his eyes clinging to Gilpatrick's hooded ones.
"You've... earned the... right. Just swear you'll... leave my daughter and
my wife alone. Swear... it, on the... Stone of... Truth that killed my
ancestor, and I'll go to hell gladly."

Silence
spun out into eternity as he waited for the movement of Gilpatrick's wrist, the
cut of the blade into flesh. And in that instant, he knew that Norah's face
would be in his heart, his mind, even when his life blood spilled free to stain
the ancient holy soil.

The
night was alive, rasping its claws against the window, peering with its mocking
moon-eye into the tower chamber where Aidan Kane's most treasured dreams lived.
Norah could feel the demon breath against her neck, see the gleam of fate's
greedy fangs ready to snatch away every hope that had taken flight on butterfly
wings in the ruin of Caislean Alainn.

She
was helpless against the dark spirits that roved this night. And yet she would
rather have been wandering the darkness herself than be trapped in this tower
room, helpless to do anything except pace before Cassandra's exquisite bed,
while the girl lay oblivious in sleep.

It
was what Aidan would want her to do, Norah knew. The reason he'd wed her—to
guard his child, to comfort her should any ill befall him. And yet how could
she offer comfort when she was half wild with fear, inconsolable at the mere
thought that Aidan might never return?