Lord of the Isle (15 page)

“It’s called a pistol. It works on the same principle as a musket. You pack it with shot pellets, powder and ignite the wick in the flash pan. Trouble is it’s likely to blow one’s hand or head off before it hurts anything else. I’d feel much better if you would put it down carefully and not touch it again.”

Morgana had no problem following that request. Muskets scared the devil out of her.

“So you are intimately acquainted with Grace O’Malley, are you?” Hugh asked.

“We’re still friends,” Morgana admitted nonchalantly.

“How long were you married to her brother?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Surely you know it’s no secret Drake is out to capture her. Warrants are posted in every port for her arrest for piracy.”

“Yes, it makes it rather hard for her to carry on the family trade now, I daresay.” Morgana folded her hands on the empty table space before her. “But I doubt Francis Drake will ever take her in. She’s a better sailor than he is.”

“You know that from experience?”

“Aye, to my sorrow I do. I’m no sailor, because water terrifies me deeply, but she can outsail Drake blindfolded.”

Hugh laughed deeply, amused by that candid observation. “The great Captain Drake would take exception if he heard you say that to his face.”

“I harbor little interest in coming face-to-face with Drake,” Morgana said. “So he’s safe from my opinions. Do you know Grace? Have you met her?”

“Aye, once, when she accompanied Greg to London to receive his letters of marque from the queen,” Hugh replied.

“My, my, you’ve seen and done everything, haven’t you? I wouldn’t have imagined you’d ever step foot out of Tyrone. Not after what they did to Shane.”

Hugh bit into the apple, savoring the last morsels of the juicy core before casting it away. “I was already in London when Shane was murdered. I’d been living there for eight years, as a page to the queen, then a squire to Sir Raleigh. You should be familiar with fostering. It’s a common enough practice here and in England.”

His admission made Morgana look at him intensely. “How old were you when you went to England as a page?”

“Not quite ten.” Hugh took a cloth from the table and wiped his hands, then carefully cleaned Gerait Og’s blade. He set the knife down on his opposite side, well away from the reach of Morgana’s hands.

“I’m not going to stab you,” she told him.

“Don’t think that I would allow you to do such a foolish thing. It doesn’t bear speaking about.”

“So.” Morgana retreated to their earlier topic, the matter of her knife tabled for the moment. “You were a page to the queen, and a squire. Did you complete the standard training in arms and become a full-fledged knight, sworn and dedicated to Her Majesty, Elizabeth?”

“I did,” Hugh affirmed with a solemn nod of his head.

“I’ll bet that made your uncle Shane happy.”

“Actually, Shane would not have cared one way or the other, though I was confirmed as the earl of Tyrone while he was still alive and could make note of it. You see, English titles make little impression on the people of Ulster.”

That tidbit stunned Morgana. “You’re the earl of Tyrone, too?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Hugh sighed deeply. He glanced toward the open skylights in the roof, then got up from his stool and began closing down each opening by cranking the gears controlling them with a long iron rod.

Morgana followed him to watch the lowering of a second skylight. A set of gears worked by a linkage of iron chain controlled the high in the ceiling devices. She shook her head, marveling at the curiosities. “I’ve never seen such a plethora of devices. Are you responsible for making all these things?”

“Guilty as charged.” Hugh smiled at the rafters over his head, concentrating on working the mechanisms.

“What other conveniences have you got up here?” She wandered off a little distance, examining whatever came to hand. She put a hand out to a pipe with a spigot on it. A steady but slow drip of water came out of it and landed in a large tub set on the wooden floor. “I thought I’d stumbled
across your whiskey still when I first looked in here. What’s this do?”

“Och,” Hugh said, and put the iron crank back on its holder on the wall. “That’s water. I’ve got a cistern on the roof for collecting the rain. Saves having to run buckets up and down the stairs.”

That wasn’t exactly an original concept, Morgana knew. Most larger houses had some means of collecting rainwater, though she’d never seen any funneled into a device on the roof, because water weighed so much.

“My grandfather had a room like this in Maynooth, but it was in the dungeon. We weren’t allowed to go down there when I was small. After he died, I went exploring, and got a terrible whipping for sticking my nose into things that I shouldn’t.”

“Rightly so,” Hugh commented. “There’s many things here that would be a danger to a child. I wouldn’t want any children mucking about up here, which is why I chose the most inaccessible room to conduct my experiments in. I will admit that my first reaction to your appearance here was to shout at you to go away.”

Morgana was only half listening to him, caught up as she was in the fascination of watching the steady drip, drip, drip, of the beads of water out the odd spigot.

As when she’d examined his big octascope, she tilted her head down to look inside the tube, trying to figure out what mechanism kept water from gushing out. Her fingers gave the knob a sound twist, and she was instantly washed with water all over her face. “Oh! Help! How do I stop it?”

Water splashed into the bottom of the tub as Morgana twisted the knob more to shut off the flow. Hugh’s hand closed over hers, turning the cock across the pipe. “What’s that saying about curiosity and cats?”

“You needn’t laugh at me,” Morgana said as she wiped her face off with her left hand.

“I’m not.” Hugh chuckled. “Look here, Morgana. The cock is open, and the water flows when this bar is straight
up and down with the pipe. It’s closed, and water doesn’t flow when it’s horizontal, or across the pipe. Understand?”

“Yes,” Morgana said, very aware of his large hand covering hers and his other hand resting on her shoulder as he gave his instructions. “Again I’ve stuck my nose where I shouldn’t.”

“A wet face seems punishment enough. You might consider asking me how things work before rushing ahead into who knows what, hmm?”

“Yes, milord,” Morgana said, chagrined. “What I wanted to ask was why the water drips when it’s shut off. Caskets of wine and ale don’t drip. Couldn’t cocks like that suit your purposes here?”

“No.” Hugh shook his head. “There’s too much water in the container on the roof. It blows out a stopcock that isn’t screwed into place. However, I am working on perfecting the valve. A few pieces of leather have worked to stop the drip for a while, but it always comes back.”

He brushed a drip off her chin, then kissed her wet mouth. “You taste very refreshing, Morgana Fitzgerald. Too bad we must go down to hall now. Otherwise, I’d be tempted to tarry a while in my feather bed with you.”

“That’s assuming I’m willing, correct?” Morgana asked.

“Are you?” Hugh inquired silkily.

Morgana wiggled her fingers out from under his. She shook her head a little bit. “Not if I must present myself shortly in the hall and deal with your sisters again. I fear they took a bad view of me the first time.”

“Actually,” Hugh drawled, following her back to the table, “they are very curious to meet you again, and asked me all sorts of questions about why you didn’t come down to hall this morning. I kept them at bay with a recitation of your numerous injuries, which, I might add, do not seem to be impairing you any now.”

“I’ve an ache or two that I haven’t forgotten,” Morgana admitted shyly. A blush ran up her throat and spread into her cheeks.

“Truly?” Now that he knew she wasn’t a nun, Hugh felt much, much better inside. He found he had a very hard time keeping his hands off her, as if her body were silently screaming out to him,
Touch me, hold me, love me.
Testing his feelings, he took the napkin he’d laid aside in hand, folded it and lifted her chin to mop up her face. “You look beautiful wet, Morgana. I want to lick each droplet from your lashes, your brow, your cheeks.”

Instead, he blotted the moisture away, and at the same time examined her closely for signs of injury that his father or his sisters might remark upon when they went to hall. The swollen and cut lip she’d arrived with had gone down appreciably. So, too, had the large knot on her jaw. In its place was a darkening bruise. Mrs. Carrick’s ministering with the leeches had removed most of the discoloration around her right eye.

He tossed the cloth on the table and dropped his hands to her shoulders. “Tell me truthfully, Morgana—do you feel up to managing a hard ride at dawn tomorrow?”

“I’ll manage it,” Morgana assured him.

“Would you actually tell me if you were in any discomfort or pain?”

“Certes,” Morgana lied.

One of Hugh’s very dark brows hiked up in a bold arch, as if to question the truth in her words.

“Well, I would,” Morgana insisted.

He said nothing to that, but his fingers tightened on her shoulders, turning her around so that he could examine the back of her head, neck and shoulders.

“We shall consider it a good thing in the coming days that I know better than to trust words spoken by all perverse Englishwomen. You are the worst liar I have ever met, Morgana Fitzgerald.”

“And what makes you say that?” Morgana demanded in an outright challenge.

Hugh’s arms circled her so that his hands could release the small bow tied in her chemise, exposed by the sweep of her boat-necked bodice. When Morgana started to bolt away from him, he caught her and held her still.

“Whist, woman, I’m not going to undress you. I simply want to see how the bruise on the back of your neck is coming along.”

Hugh was glad she wasn’t facing him when he drew the soft cloth down and exposed the terrible dark bruise marring the triangular rise of flesh from her shoulder into her long, elegant neck.

Mrs. Carrick should have leeched it, and had Hugh spied it in time, he would have ordered that done. It was too late to remedy now. The purplish mark would have to heal naturally. Touching it reminded him of the brute who had left the mark on her. Hugh set her chemise in place again, turned the young woman to face him and deftly retied the bow at her distinct collarbone.

“It must look awful, since your mouth is so grim.”

“I am controlling my temper,” Hugh replied tersely. “Seeing that mark makes me want to go to the dungeon and give James Kelly another sampling of the power of my fists.”

“You can’t do that when you told him to his face that you wouldn’t lower yourself to strike him again.”

Hugh solved that problem easily enough. “Then I shall order Kermit Blackbeard to beat him to a bloody pulp.”

“Let’s go and do that now,” Morgana declared. “I want to watch.”

“No, you will not,” Hugh answered, without a moment’s hesitation. “I may allow you to come to the stone of the O’Neills to give testimony against the cur when the gathering convenes, but I assure you, Morgana, you will not witness his punishment or his death.”

That particular statement didn’t satisfy Morgana’s driving need for revenge. However, she wasn’t going to engage in foolish arguments with Hugh O’Neill about what he would or would not allow her to do. She would do what she must do, always.

“I believe it would be appropriate for you to let your hair down from this net,” Hugh said as he quickly dispensed with the few pins holding the netting secure. As her hair tumbled free onto his hands and her shoulders, he added a reason for that request. “It is not necessary that you display your wounds to the public eye. There will be ale and whiskey flowing in my hall this night, as well as many people with long-standing grudges against Kelly. It would serve no purpose to incite a mob. I want justice served so there will be no challenge to the clan’s authority over its sons by our English overlords. Do you understand that, Morgana?”

“No,” she admitted truthfully. “I want Kelly dead. Preferably by my filleting him from throat to groin with my own knife. That’s what I want.”

“Well, then, we are at cross purposes. I, too, want him dead. Only I want that life forfeit to written and incontestable law. Kelly is my kinsman, my brother under the ages-old law of the clans. The baron has the power of pit and gallows in all matters regarding people born of clan O’Neill. I have that power over all who live in Tir-Owen and Tir-Connail—in short, all of Ulster. That right supersedes English law.

“Kelly must go to trial and be judged by his peers. Nothing less is acceptable. So I ask you, as a favor to me, wear your hair down, so that it covers the marks he left on you. You will have your revenge in the end.”

“You ask too much of me, Hugh O’Neill.”

“Then you must forgive me, Morgana Fitzgerald of Kildare, for I must ask for nothing less than the best of you.”

Morgana replied with firm conviction, “You haven’t the right to ask me anything, Hugh O’Neill.”

“Oh?” His eyes darkened with deliberate heat, reminding her that she’d already given her consent to anything he desired from her. “Is that the way you think to play this?”

Shouts came from below stairs. “My lord Hugh! My lord Hugh!” The thunderous tramp of boots on the steps accompanied the breathless heralding of trouble to come.

“My lord Hugh!” Rory O’Neill shouted as he burst into the loft. “James Kelly’s caused a revolt in the gaol at Fort Tullaghoge! Shamus Fitz has been overpowered. Kelly and four other villains have escaped!”

A
fter Hugh O’Neill departed in haste, Morgana thought better of going down to hall alone. She retired to Hugh’s feather bed on the lower floor, prepared to content herself with whatever was left over on the table for her supper.

Mrs. Carrick had not forgotten that there were other guests to the house, and came shortly after sundown bearing a heavily laden tray. She didn’t bat a single eyelash at finding Morgana resting in Lord Hugh’s bed, which made Morgana wonder if that was commonplace.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have troubled with me,” Morgana protested as she got to her feet.

“Sure and I should be troubled. You’re young Hugh’s guest, milady. We couldn’t let you starve up here in his drafty old tower.” Mrs Carrick set the tray down and lighted the candles on the table beside it. “Hugh never meant to leave you stranded.”

“I don’t feel stranded,” Morgana replied. If anything, she felt relieved that she hadn’t had to present herself in the vast hall, where the evening’s supper and entertainment were about to commence.

“Ah, well, but you are. O’Neill and his men are ever on the march somewhere. Come, sit you down, my lady. You need to build up your strength for tomorrow’s journey. Young Hugh told me you are determined to go to Dunluce, come what may.”

“I really haven’t any choice in that, Mrs. Carrick.”

“No, and I canna argue the wiseness of that, either. But at least you will have young Hugh and his kerns accompanying you, so you will make that journey safely.” Mrs. Carrick uncovered her trays, and an appetizing aroma lifted to Morgana’s nose, making her realize how hungry she’d become. “Though it is my opinion that it is too soon for you to travel at all. You’ve been through much, milady.”

“Thank you,” Morgana said graciously. “But again, Mrs. Carrick, I haven’t any choice in the matter. I must be at Dunluce before May tenth.”

“Humph!” Mrs. Carrick wasn’t convinced. “That’s the trouble with you young folk, you’re always in such a hurry. You do not take the time to enjoy the moment.”

That reminded Morgana of the delightful moments she’d spent in this room only the night before. Mrs. Carrick couldn’t have been more wrong. For Morgana had enjoyed every minute she spent with Hugh O’Neill.

“Oh, and before I forget it, Brigit will be bringing you up hot water to wash, as well as your mended garments. We repaired and cleaned what we could. Such fine clothes shouldn’t go to rags. Not much could be done for the skirts, but Hugh’s told me he’s provided you well with others.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Carrick, that was very kind of you.” Morgana said sincerely.

“’Twas the least we could do, milady.”

When she’d eaten her fill, Morgana again had the luxury of soaking in a hot tub. She found the day’s lack of exercise had allowed most of her muscles to tighten, thereby letting her know that yesterday had been a day filled with excesses of all kinds.

Content, she retired early, to be ready for an early departure the next morning.

Morgana Fitzgerald was sleeping soundly when Hugh O’Neill returned from a fruitless ride across Tyrone. The clockwork’s iron hammered the hour of four. Hugh
dropped his plaid to the floor and shivered the way a dog shakes water from its coat just before he crawled into bed.

Morgana stirred awake, recognizing the scent of the man drawing her into his encompassing arms. “Hugh, you’re back,” she said. “Did you catch him?”

“Nay.” One gruffly spoken word told Morgana all was not well beyond the confines of Castle O’Neill. The impact of Hugh’s body against hers told her more, that he was wet and cold, tired and exhausted, from a hard, futile ride. His damp brow dropped to her shoulder and lay there, as if he were seeking comfort.

Without a second thought, Morgana wrapped her arms around him. Her hands soothed the tired and knotted muscles at the back of his neck. She touched the sodden queue dripping cold water on his back.

“My lord!” Morgana exclaimed. “You’re soaking wet!”

“I hadn’t noticed, for I am fair burning for you, my lady.”

Hugh’s unshaven cheek nuzzled against her neck, and she felt the heat of his breath caressing the soft curves of her ear and the press of his nose against her temple. “Ah, Morgana, you smell so sweet and fresh.”

“And you are as cold as marble, and wet, too.” Morgana shivered where his damp chest glazed her breasts and belly, dampening the sheer lawn of her night rail.

“Blame the moat. I could not come to you smelling of horse and sweat.” Hugh caught hold of a blanket at their feet and pulled it over his back. He shuddered deeply, then nestled down against her, seeking her heat as a ward against a cool spring morn. “I have been thinking long and hard, Morgana of Kildare.”

“Oh?” Morgana murmured, adjusting her body to accommodate his. “Pray tell me what your thinking long and hard has led you to?”

“Kelly has escaped my justice, your revenge, and the retribution of clan O’Neill. The bastard is as slippery as an eel,

though I believe he had help from within to make good this escape. He will make more trouble for you.”

Morgana lifted an unconcerned shoulder. “The man has been the bane of my existence for the last year. I have always managed to outwit him. In truth, my lord, he’s not as cunning as he would like us to believe.”

“Maybe not.” Hugh was willing to grant that much. “But he is as tenacious as a hound with the last bone from the feast between his teeth. He’ll return with more men, now that he knows you are here.”

“All the more reason for us to part company soonest,” Morgana said plainly, giving no hint of the deep regret that caused her to feel.

Hugh lifted his head somewhat, so that he could use his sharp eyes to divine her features. The chamber remained trapped in the stygian darkness that precedes dawn. No waxing moon or fading hearth fire cast romantic light on Hugh’s private bed. He sighed as he traced his forefinger down her profile, needing no light to confirm her quiet, solitary composure.

Morgana Fitzgerald’s mettle had been tempered in the hot forge of the fugitive’s life. Nothing on this earth that Hugh did would cause her strong will to break.

“Morgana, this is no game afoot here. You must tell me what it is Kelly truly wants of you. How else can I protect you?”

“You cannot protect me, Hugh O’Neill. No one can.”

“Ah, Morgana, in that you are wrong.” Hugh let a deep breath fill and expand his chest. His hips nestled against hers, their legs entwined on the rough linen sheeting. “You are perfectly safe here in my tower.”

“Do you think I am a bird you can cage? I am not.”

“I did not say that. Castle O’Neill is safe. The English cannot touch any of us here. Kelly knows you are traveling to Dunluce. I say we wait awhile, delay the journey, say a week or more. You need the time to recover.”

“I don’t have so much as a day to waste, Hugh O’Neill.”

“Ah, but you are a maddening, iron-mouthed woman, unbroken to the bit. What cannot wait a day or a week? Whose life depends upon this journey of yours?”

Morgana put her hands to his chest and pushed him away. The next earl of Kildare’s destiny hung on her journey. “The sun will be rising anon. I must go.”

The bed shifted as she climbed out of it. So resolute was her tone and her mood that Hugh thought she would storm out the unlocked door and depart without him. “Morgana, I have just ridden ten leagues through the night and back. Come, stay with me a while longer, till the sun rises. I will not allow you to leave Castle O’Neill without me.”

“You cannot stop me by your command. I am a free woman, Hugh O’Neill, and you have no cause to detain me or delay me,” she argued.

“I am not commanding you to come to bed and let me sleep an hour or two. I am asking you to let me rest. Is that so unreasonable that you must fly into the night?”

He heard her sigh deeply, troubled and uncertain, as if delaying her journey were more dangerous than running headlong into danger.

“You are a bold, bad man,” she whispered.

Taken aback, Hugh said, “Why say you that?”

“You ridicule my urgency.”

“Then explain it to me, or else let me sleep, woman. The sun will not rise for another two hours. Come, Morgana. This is a foolish argument. Get you back into bed. A quiet sleep in my arms will not harm you.”

He couldn’t have been further from the truth. Did she get back into that bed with him, she might never have the strength to leave it.

Morgana put down the flint and iron she’d taken up to light the candles. Her body trembled and quaked, chilled by the cold that had seeped in with the night. She crossed her arms, compressing the dampness he’d transferred to her night rail against her breasts, in a futile effort to warm herself. She recognized a new weakness inside her, a crack in
her armor through which she had allowed Hugh O’Neill to wedge a toehold in her soul.

It would be far better for the both of them if she left him now and went on her own. Quietly, so as not to alert him to her intentions, Morgana gathered up her saddle packs, her clothes and her boots. Then she slipped out the open door and tiptoed up to the loft to dress.

Hugh unlaced his fingers from behind his head and sat up. He was tired, yes, but not exhausted. Odds were he’d not sleep a wink even if the woman did come back to bed and be reasonable. He’d want to finish what he’d started, and bed her thoroughly. That would only delay their departure.

So he, too, climbed out of bed. His toes found the plaid he’d dropped, and his fingers fumbled over the stacks on the Welsh dresser until he found a clean sark, hose, trews and a belt. As the morning was crisp and cool, he added a quilted doublet to warm his chest. He bumped into the new table and bench added to his furnishings for her comfort and sat to lace up his cross garters and boots.

Finished, he caught up his sword belt and scabbards and stood in the bartizan stairwell, fastening the clanking metal armaments to his hips, waiting for her to descend the steps from his loft. He did not have to wait long before the sounds of wools and linen swishing from the landing above informed him of her descent.

Morgana had lighted a torch, wisely choosing not to try to manage the stairs without light. She came round the curve and stopped several steps above Hugh when she spied him standing on the landing, blocking her way.

“My lord,” she whispered.

“Don’t ‘my lord’ me, you willful wench. I’m up. We’ll go now.” He turned to a closed door on his left and hammered his fist on the wood, hollering, “O’Toole, à
moil
We ride to Dunluce!”

Beyond the oak door, a muffled voice returned sleepily, “Christ and him crucified, are ye daft, man? We just went to bed!”

“Rise, you lazy bounder, and fetch the men. Meet me no farther north than Tullaghoge.”

That said, Hugh O’Neill reached up and took Morgana’s heavy saddle packs from her shoulder. He gestured for her to take the lead on the stairs, since she was carrying the torch. Morgana smiled as she brushed past him, holding up her hems so that her step was sure. “Thank you, my lord.”

Hugh grunted out of sorts and followed, unwilling to say anything civil to that.

The pink glow of sunrise was just glazing the hills and the cloudless sky as Hugh and Morgana rode out the north gate of Castle O’Neill’s village. Ariel was in fine mettle, restless and ready to run, and skittish of the dun stallion, Boru, that Hugh rode.

Hugh tossed Morgana a half loaf of rye bread as they galloped up the hills toward distant Slieve Gallion. “Best save some of that. I can’t say when I’ll have more to offer you.”

Morgana held back a chuckle over his snappish temper and secured the bread inside a tuck in her Irish mantle. She put her heels to Ariel’s sides and let the mare set her own pace following the stallion.

A heavy mist clung to the low spots outside the township’s walls and blanketed the moat, obliterating the castle on the crannog from Morgana’s sight. Soon it would rise. Morgana felt confident the fog would linger on through the early morning. She couldn’t think of a better way to escape her worries for Sean’s safety than to be taking action, and to have that action obliterated from common sight by thick and encroaching fog.

Content for the first time in days, she followed Hugh O’Neill north through Tyrone, certain that this time, nothing untoward would impede her path.

They rested the horses at noon at a little wood on a rise just to the north of the high cross of Maghera. True to Hugh’s orders, his kerns had caught up with them before
they skirted round the village of Tullaghoge. Rory and Brian O’Neill had been the last to catch up, bringing with them a packhorse loaded with provisions for the road.

Morgana dismounted and walked the kinks out of her legs. She let the men take their privacy first, in the small wood, while she walked Ariel a bit to cool her down.

“We’ve made good time,” Hugh said, and fell into step beside her, his large shadow looming over hers as she circled the wood.

“How much farther is Dunluce?” Morgana asked him.

“Another ten leagues, easily, due north.” Raising his right hand, he pointed to a nearby mountain peak. “That’s Carntogher, the last peak of the Sperrin Mountains. The land levels out somewhat between here and the coast. It’s not as hilly or as heavily wooded. The last leg becomes so rockbound, it wears out the seat of your trews and the iron shoes of your horse.”

“For someone who’s been away for such a long time, you’re amazingly familiar with your land,” Morgana observed.

“I’ve spent a lot of time riding, familiarizing myself with old memories. Truth be told, mistress, it feels good to be home.”

Hugh grinned so endearingly, it made Morgana’s heart throb. He was so open and appealing that it hurt to know she could never stay with him. Not that he’d asked.

No, aside from that one mention of her being his leman, immediately after they made love, he’d not brought up the subject of her remaining at Castle O’Neill again.

Which was fine, since she couldn’t stay, for now she cared about what became of Hugh O’Neill. Any soul so unlucky as to be linked to a Fitzgerald soon found himself in the unenviable position of having legions of enemies.