Dark of the Moon (15 page)

Caitlyn frowned as she looked over at him. Like Cormac, Rory was usually laughing and full of jokes; his behavior now was odd.

Connor had taken off his mask and was walking toward the hole as he untied his cloak when Rory's stillness caught his attention.

"What ails you, Rory?" he asked sharply, changing direction so that he was moving toward his younger brother.

"You know the bullet that Cormac said had his name on it? Well, there was one out-there with mine too. But it didn't miss." Roiy's voice was weak and faintly apologetic.

"What?"

Connor pulled the hood from Rory's head, untying his cloak with quick hands. Rory continued to lean against Thunderer as if the horse were the only thing holding him upright. He submitted to Connor's ministrations without protest, which, given Rory's independent nature, was frightening. Connor let the cloak drop to the floor, revealing Rory's coat, which was soaked with blood from the left shoulder to the elbow. As he looked down at his own bloodied sleeve, Rory's knees gave way.

"Rory!" The cry was Cormac's. He and Liam surged forward with Mickeen close behind.

Connor caught Rory's weight and eased him to the ground. Forgetting that she was supposed to be invisible, Caitlyn moved forward too, not quite joining the rest but hovering on the outskirts of the light as the men bent over Rory.

"Damn! Look at me, swooning like a lass!" Rory was faint but still valiant, trying to laugh at himself despite his obvious pain. Connor ignored him, pulling a knife from his boot and slitting the sleeve from shoulder to wrist with quick efficiency, then stripping it and the shirtsleeve beneath away so that the arm lay bare. A small black hole pierced the swollen, purpled flesh of the upper arm. Blood flowed copiously from the hole down the length of the arm to drip on the floor. Rory took one look and turned his head away.

" 'Tis not so very bad. You'll live," Connor said brac- ingly, lifting the arm with gentle hands to discover an exit wound, which meant that the bullet had not lodged inside. Rory grunted in pain at the movement. In response to that faint sound, Connor carefully put the arm back down, adding, "Though your arm will be hurting you for a goodly while, I have no doubt."

Rory closed his eyes. Connor looked up. "Mickeen, you and Cormac see to the horses.

Liam, I'll need your help."

Caitlyn, remembering where she was, instinctively shrank away toward the shadows as the others started to obey Connor's commands. But Mickeen's sharp eyes picked up her movement.

"Look there!" he hissed, his hand on the pistol he wore thrust in his belt. Caitlyn, afraid she might be shot out of hand, stepped out into the narrow circle of light so that she could be identified.

"I—there was no one in the house," she said lamely as five pairs of eyes fixed her with expressions ranging from astonishment to anger to resignation.

"What the bloody hell is she doing out here? Spying?"

"She'll likely be blabbin' her head off now, just like a damned female!"

"Oh, Jesus!"

"What now, Conn?"

Connor stared steadily at Caitlyn for a moment, his devil's eyes unreadable. Meeting his gaze, Caitlyn experi- enced a tiny shiver of fear. It was just within the realm of possibility that whatever they were doing was so secret that they would kill her for witnessing it.

" 'Tis something I should have expected. You have a nose for trouble, don't you, lass?"

Connor's eyes held hers for a moment longer. "You'll be keeping your mouth shut, I trust."

"Oh, aye," Caitlyn agreed ferventiy. From the looks on the faces of the others, they were considering very unpleasant fates for her.

"Can we be trustin' her, me lord?" Mickeen's face was hard as he stared at Caitlyn.

"Of course we can trust her. She's practically one of us, now that she knows." That was Cormac. Caitlyn managed an uncertain smile at him.

"She doesn't know," Liam said in a warning undertone. "Not anything that matters."

They all looked at her again, even Rory from his supine position on the stable floor.

"She'll keep her mouth shut. And we can use her help," Connor said, dismissing the argument. Then, turning his attention from Caitlyn to Rory, he directed Liam to take his brother's feet while he took his shoulders.

"I can walk, damn it," Rory protested. Ignoring him, Connor and Liam lifted him and started for the stable door.

"Cormac, you and Mickeen clear away in here. Take care to get any bloodstains, mind.

Caitlyn, you can come with us. Hold something over his head to keep out the rain."

Caitlyn slid out of Cormac's cloak and held it over Rory's head as the four of them hurried through the rainswept darkness toward the house. She held the back door for them, then followed them to the stairs. Rory's blood dripped all over the steps and floor, leaving crimson smears. Fortunately, the sight of blood did not make Caitlyn feel sick, though she knew it affected many that way. Connor's face was pale and set as he and Liam carried their brother to his chamber. It was nearly as pale as Rory's, who looked as if he might faint at any minute.

"Caitlyn, you go get hot water and linen strips for bandages. Try to use as little light as possible. We don't want to attract any attention to the house."

Caitlyn hurried to do Connor's bidding. By the time she had returned with the required objects, Rory was stretched out in his bed clad in his nightshirt and the windows were securely shuttered to avoid letting out any chinks of light from the candle at the bedside.

"Liam, you can go and help Cormac and Mickeen now." Connor dismissed his brother.

"Clean up the blood on the way and make sure everything's as it should be. Caitlyn will help me."

"Aye, Conn." Liam vanished with a single hard look at Caitlyn. She counted Cormac and Rory as friends, but Liam was harder to win over. He still mistrusted her, she knew. But Connor's championship made it impossible for Liam to be overtly hostile even if he wished to be. He and Mickeen, who was troubled by no such qualms of conscience, were the flies in the ointment of her new life.

"Here, hold the basin." Sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, Caitlyn took the basin on her lap, watching as Connor thoroughly cleaned the wound and applied pressure with a folded pad of bandages. Still the bleeding continued, staining the pad crimson and seeping finally down the arm again.

"Damned thing's a mess, ain't it?" Rory muttered, wetting his lips as he looked at his arm.

"The bullet must have nicked a vein," Connor grunted in reply. After another try with a fresh pad with the same results, he was frowning heavily and Rory was white to the lips.

Caitlyn looked at Connor in alarm. He shook his head at her, telling her without words to say nothing that would alarm Rory, and tossed the blood-soaked pad in the bowl she still held.

Then he lifted the bowl away from her and set it on the bedside table. Extracting the knife from his boot again, he held its blade to the candle flame until it glowed red-hot.

"This will hurt," he warned Rory, who nodded and turned his face away. The hand on Rory's uninjured side clenched the bedclothes. Caitlyn covered that clenched fist with her hand, and the fingers curved to grip hers instead.

"If you're squeamish, don't look," Connor advised Caitlyn briefly. But she was unable to tear her eyes away, watching with fascinated horror as he brought the red-hot blade up against the open, oozing wound. Rory made a choked sound as the knife sizzled and the smell of burning flesh rose from the wound, but he didn't scream. Instead, his fingers squeezed Caitlyn's until hers were numb.

"Brave lad," Connor murmured to him as he lifted the knife from the wound and returned it to the candle. Cauterized, the wound remained closed. On one side, at least, the bleeding had stopped.

"Jesus, that hurt more than getting the damned bullet," Rory managed faintiy.

"I know."

Caitlyn felt her stomach chum as Connor helped Rory turn over so that he could reach the back of the arm. Then, mouth grim, he held the glowing knife to the exit wound. Rory stiffened, groaning loudly as the cauterizing heat stopped the bleeding. His hand squeezed Caitlyn's until she thought she would scream. Just as she felt she could bear the pain no more, Rory went limp.

"Connor!" Caitlyn gripped Rory's lifeless hand in a panic. Connor took the knife away, cleansing it with the flame before returning it to his boot, while Caitlyn hovered frantically over Rory.

"He's fainted merely," Connor said, deftly winding a bandage around the injured arm. "He's not badly hurt, now that we've got the bleeding stopped." He tied the bandage in place, then pulled the sleeve of the nightshirt over it. "Stay with him till he wakes. I have business to attend to that I can't put off any longer."

Connor got to his feet, looming tall beside the bed as he frowned down at his unconscious brother. Clad only in shirt and breeches, booted feet splattered with mud and rain-wet black hair tied in back in a neat club, he emanated raw masculine power. Caitlyn, standing beside him, felt small and almost fragile. She looked up at him uncertainly. This Connor with the hard-set face and purposeful air was unfamiliar to her. The candlelight gleamed off an intricately wrought silver cross that dangled halfway down his shirtfront from a chain around his neck. That was unfamiliar to her as well; she had never before seen him wear an item of jewelry other than his pocket fob. The aqua eyes glinted as brightly as the silver medallion in the bronze of his face. His mouth was set, with deep lines running from it to his nose that she had never noticed before. It struck her then that Rory's injury hurt Connor too, more than she would have thought.

"What—what were you about, to get Rory shot?" she whispered, unable to resist the question. Connor's eyes were on her then, the restless energy that burned in them frightening.

She knew he would tell her nothing.

"You know as much as you need, and more. You should have stayed in the house." His voice was rough-edged, his eyes aflame. "A word of advice, Caitlyn: keep your nose out of that which doesn't concern you."

With that, he turned on his heel and was gone. Caitlyn stared after him for a few moments, listening to the sound of his booted feet on the stairs. Then, as Rory stirred, she settled herself beside the bed. Her mind was awhirl with questions to which she could find no satisfactory answers.

The work was near done when Connor strode back into the stable. The trapdoor was closed, with straw swept over it so that none would ever guess of its existence. The take had been divided up; Fharannain was still saddled, and Cormac and Liam were tying the filled saddlebags to the horn. His cloak and mask rested across the saddle. Mickeen was scooping what was left into the strongbox that stayed hidden in the bam. That was something else for Connor to take care of, but later.

As he entered, shaking the rain from his hair, Cormac and Liam turned from their task to look at him. Anxiety was plain in both faces. Connor allowed himself a brief moment of self-congratulation. Whatever else he had done, or not done, he had raised his brothers well.

They cared for one another truly, as a family should.

"Rory?" Cormac asked quietly as Connor came over to check Fharannain's girth.

"He's well enough. He'll suffer no lasting harm."

Liam looked as relieved as Cormac. Mickeen, having finished what he was doing and now in the act of carrying the strongbox to the place where it was customarily secreted, said over his shoulder, "Aye, and didn't I tell you that only the good die young? Young Rory should have a grand long life."

The three remaining d'Arcys grinned. Mickeen, for all his gruff exterior, was as fond of Rory as they were. The old osder had been with them from the beginning and would lay down his life without hesitation for any one of them.

'What about Caitlyn? Did you . . . tell her anything?" Cormac asked as Connor donned cloak and mask and swung into the saddle.

"Nothing. And you're not to, either of you. Not that I don't think we can trust her, but the fewer people who know the truth the safer we are." He signaled with his knees to Fharannain to move out, adding over his shoulder, "Go on up to the house now and get some sleep. Your part is done for tonight.''

Then he was out in the rainswept darkness, setting Fharannain at a canter over the hills toward Navan. Fortunately, he knew tonight's route as well as he knew the layout of his own house, as did the great black beast beneath him. Fharannain flew effortlessly over fences and streams that both could barely see, leaving Connor's mind free to wander.

Rory had taken a bullet. It was the first time in the years they had been riding with him that one of his brothers had been hurt. Connor felt a deep anxiety as he thought about it. Mayhap he should put a halt to things now, while he could with all of them whole. His brothers were, and always had been, his first concern. His father had given them over to his keeping on the night he died, and Connor had honored his promise to his sire to care for them to the best of his ability ever since.

They had been rough years, those first ones. There was no money, only the land and the few pieces of furnishings and gewgaws that could be salvaged from the charred ruins of the Castle.

As a lad of twelve, left with three young brothers ranging in age from four to seven to provide for, to say nothing of the peasants who had traditionally depended upon Donoughmore for support and now were forced to make their own way with much hardship and suffering, Connor had been at his wit's end. At first he had sent Mickeen to Dublin to sell what few possessions they retained that were worth anything, but he had known that when the possessions ran out, the money would too.

In
a
desperate search for some means of earning a living for his new responsibilities, Connor had gone to Dublin on his own and had quickly discovered that thievery or buggery was the only way for a lad his age to get money. As he was not inclined to permit some fat rou6

the use of his body, he had turned to thievery. In the intervening two years he had spent at least half the time in Dublin, leaving Mickeen behind at the farm to care for his brothers, picking pockets and thieving from market stalls and stealing whatever he could find that could be converted to cash. With no small degree of success, either. He had kept his brothers alive and the farm going while the injustice of it all burned at him. He, Connor d'Arcy, Earl of Iveagh, should by rights have been master of a handsome estate, with a fortune to command. His brothers would have known a life of ease and plenty. Instead they were poorer than the poorest peasants, often hungry and in rags, with only a lad not much older than they to provide for them. His hatred of the bloody Anglicans who had stolen everything of value from the Irish and killed his father besides became a living thing inside him. One day, he vowed, he would have his revenge. And that day had come, though the vengeance was small compared with the magnitude of the grievance. . . .