Nell (14 page)

“I, too, Robert. But soon the child will be born, and it will be over.”

His breath caught. He could barely form the words. “Then will you be my wife, Nell?”

She looked confused. “I am your wife.”

“In name only.”

“I don't understand.”

Could a woman great with child truly be so innocent? “You gave yourself to the O'Flaherty, did you not?” he asked gently.

Nell was not cowardly. She lifted her chin and looked directly at him. “I did.”

“Were you willing?”

She bit her lip. “I was.”

“Then you know what I want.”

He knew the exact moment she understood. “What if I told you that I cannot lie with you because I still love Donal O'Flaherty?”

His mouth hardened. “Love that is not returned eventually dies.”

She waited, listening to the pounding of her heart and the hiss of rain on the fire.

Robert continued. “A corpse cannot love you, Nell. You are my wife. If he comes for you, I must kill him. Any man would do the same. Then I will wait until you are ready to love again.”

Something flickered and disappeared behind her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was clear and calm and completely devoid of expression. “May I have until the child is born?”

“I love you, Nell. I would never force you.”

She nodded and pushed her chair away from the table. “Pardon me, my lord. I am very tired.”

Robert nodded. She had never before asked permission to retire. “As you wish, Nell. Good night.”

Hours later, unable to sleep, Nell rolled over, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and stared through the darkness at the outline of her window. She rubbed her lower back and groaned. It was past time for the child to be born, and until he was, sleep, comfortable sleep, where a body could fold effortlessly into a number of preferred positions, was a longed-for luxury. Nell looked at her left wrist, frowned, and rubbed it. She'd done that before, always in the dark for no particular reason, eyes squinting at the space between her hand and her arm as if she expected to find something.

She sat up, pushed the covers away, and walked to the fireplace. It was cold but not so cold as Ireland. With the poker, she stirred the embers into a small but steady flame and pulled up a chair to its meager warmth. Tucking her legs beneath the weight of her stomach, she thought. The moment she dreaded had finally come. Robert was her husband, and he wanted what any husband would have demanded long before. For months, he had been most patient, sharing everything that was his, asking nothing in return, until tonight. Even then, he had played the gentleman, asking, not demanding. She could do much worse. It was not so very hard a thing to do, to lie with a man. She had done so before, even though the details of her coupling with Donal were hazy, as if they had happened years instead of months ago.

“Am I foolish to dream of a man who never comes?” she whispered.

Shadows gathered on the wall, took on female shape, and became three-dimensional. A voice followed.
A
better
man
than
Robert
Montgomery
would
be
hard
to
find. But you are wise to wait, Nell.

Surprise faded into pleasure. “Jilly, you're back.”

For
a
bit.

“Why?”

A slight fluid shrugging of her shoulders settled Jillian on the fur rug at Nell's feet.
I
never
left
you, Nell. I'm always here.

“In spirit, perhaps, but not like this.”

No,
Jillian agreed.
I
don't understand it, either. All I
know
is
that
you
see
me
when
you
are
faced
with
a
particular
dilemma. Most of the time, you do fairly well alone.

Nell sighed. “It isn't really a dilemma. I have no choice.”

If
you
really
believe
that, why did you ask Robert to wait?

Nell spread her hands across her stomach. “Look at me. Who would want me like this?”

I
thought
the
idea
was
to
make
him
not
want
you.

“'Tis true. I want only Donal.”

You
haven't heard from him in months,
Jillian finished for her.

Nell nodded. “Our year of handfast is almost over, and still he has not come.”

You
told
him
to
wait
because
of
Gerald,
Jillian said reasonably.

Nell hung her head. “He should have found a way. But if he has forgotten me, I should make a life with Robert. As you say, a better man would be hard to find.”

Wait
a
bit
longer, Nell. Your child will be born soon.
Jillian's voice was very low, and the outline of her body began to blur.

Nell panicked and reached out, finding nothing but air. “Don't leave yet, Jilly,” she begged. “Please, don't leave.”

Jillian's voice, barely intelligible, drifted back to her.

Wait, Nell. You are right to wait.

O'Flaherty held up his hand, and the small company of men behind him reined in their mounts. They had ridden hard for most of the day, and it was past time to camp for the night. Mountains, jagged and intimidating, broke the straight line of the horizon, and a thick, soupy mist settled around them like smoke. This was Wales, land of spirits and magic, King Arthur and Merlin, the druid from whose bloodline the O'Flahertys had descended.

Donal frowned into the mist and narrowed his eyes. It was madness to continue with so little visibility, but, so far, he had found no auspicious place to bed down for the night. His men were Irish. Superstition ran thick through their blood. He could not ask them to sleep in this fog-drenched land of swirling mists with inhuman sounds calling to them from hidden places behind every tree.

It was a testimony to their loyalty that they continued behind him with no thought of mutiny. But they would not camp on this ground, wrapped in their blankets, alone in their thoughts, with no activity other than sleep to occupy their minds. Still, it was several hours to Cilcerrig, and the horses needed watering. A respite, however short, was necessary.

He pitched his voice so that even the last of the men would hear. “Halt,” he called back. Instantly, every man stopped. Donal did not miss the tight mouths and anxious eyes as they looked around the fairy-steeped darkness. “We rest here,” he said firmly. “Refresh yourselves. Tonight we camp within sight of the towers of Cilcerrig.”

The lessening of their tension was a visible thing. Donal dismounted and reached into his bag for an oat cake, a morsel of dried beef, and his sheep's bladder. Through the trees he heard the sound of water. Draining the last of the liquid from the bag, he made his way down an embankment to a narrow stream. He knelt on a flat stone, cupped his hand under the falls, and drank deeply before refilling the bag and tying it off. Then he splashed the icy water over his face and squatted on the stone, resting easily on the balls of his feet.

The fog was thinner here. Something bright moved just outside his line of vision. He tensed and turned toward the flickering light. Instinctively, his hand moved to the dirk at his belt, and he readied himself to spring. Then his eyes widened. His hand dropped to his side, and he whistled long and low. “Sweet Mary,” he muttered as the light came closer, revealing a figure that could only be female despite her breeks and the odd cut of her shirt. She carried no candle, but her body was surrounded by a yellow glow. Donal waited for her to speak.

I'm looking for Donal O'Flaherty,
she said when she reached him. Her voice was somehow both Irish and foreign.

Donal stood and replaced his dirk in his belt. “What do you want with him?”

I
bring
him
a
message.

“From whom?”

She hesitated.
I
need
to
speak
with
the
O'Flaherty.

“Who are you, lass, and what brings you here?”

Jillian could see him clearly now, and her breath caught. It was him. There could be no doubt. Nell had described him often enough, but even if she hadn't, Jillian would have known him. He had the look of a man born to command. Young as he was, the still planes of his face and the bunched muscles of his arms and chest revealed both strength and wisdom. He was beyond handsome, and those eyes—she drew a deep, shaky breath. Those eyes were a powerful weapon. If Donal O'Flaherty ever looked at her with more than a curious interest, she would follow him anywhere. No wonder Nell had no interest in her husband. This was a man of whom legends were made. She swallowed.
I
bring
a
message
concerning
Nell
Fitzgerald.

Before she could blink, he had crossed the distance between them. “What do you know of Nell Fitzgerald?” he demanded.

Jillian's eyes flashed. Not since she was a child had anyone spoken to her in anger.
Lower
your
voice, please,
she said, keeping her back teeth locked.

Donal frowned. There was something different about this girl. She wasn't dressed as a lady, and yet she was no servant. He stepped back. “Who are you?”

Jillian ignored him.
You've taken a long time to claim your betrothed,
she said instead.
Nell
has
given
up
on
you.

His intentions regarding Nell were no one's business. Donal's beautifully cut mouth tightened. “She is married,” he said shortly.

Jillian fixed the power of her gaze upon him, and Donal felt his will dissolve. Her eyes were the color of the North Sea with the full strength of the sun upon it. There was something about this woman that transcended beauty.

Nell
is
handfasted
to
you,
Jillian explained.
What
she
did
was
done
to
save
Gerald.

Donal forced himself to look away. “Always Gerald,” he muttered under his breath. “For all the trouble he has caused me, I could wish the lad on Henry.”

Nell
will
appreciate
your
sentiments, I'm sure,
Jillian said sweetly.

Donal grinned. He was sure he'd never seen her before, but she reminded him of someone. He felt a connection to her. There was something about her that drew him despite her shorn head and mannish clothes. Her hair glowed like rare silk, and it smelled delicious. He had the strangest desire to run his hands through the smooth and shining length of it. “You are too well favored to sport such a shrewish tongue, lass,” he said softly. “Who are you that you know Nell's thoughts and yet appear before me, hours from Cilcerrig, with no mount or escort?”

Jillian's mouth was very dry. His voice was spellbinding. She had never been this close to a man before, but she knew instinctively that this was no ordinary man. He was Donal O'Flaherty and most likely her direct ancestor.

Through the mist, she heard a masculine shout, and sanity returned. She pulled away. How far away was a sixteenth-century Irish chieftain from his Talesian roots? How much would he accept?
My
name
is
Jillian,
she began softly,
and
I
came
here
to
be
sure
of
your
intentions
regarding
Nell. It's important that you take her away from here.

In the space of a heartbeat, something alive and sympathetic traveled between them. Jillian was close to tears, and when Donal spoke, there was something different in his voice, a note of wonder that had not been there before. “Are you an angel sent from God?”

Good
Lord, no,
she blurted out.
I'm
— She searched for the right words.
I'm more like a spirit or a ghost, and no one sent me, at least I don't think so,
she added honestly.

Donal shook his head and watched his image reflected in the seafoam green of her eyes. “You are no ghost, Jillian. I can see you, touch you.” He reached for her.

She stepped back.
You
may
see
me
as
Nell
does, but others can't.

He frowned and dropped his hands to his sides. “Nell and I are fortunate to have so concerned a
ghost
.”

You're making fun of me.

Tiny lights flickered in the black of his eyes. “Nay, lass. I would like the truth, but if you are unwilling to give it, I'll not pester you.” He stepped down from the rock and held out his hand. “Come. We'll ride to Cilcerrig together.”

She backed away from him.
No, thank you. I'll manage on my own.

He moved toward her. “Don't be absurd.” Something was happening to his vision. Donal blinked and rubbed his eyes. It had suddenly gone dark. “It's freezing!” he shouted after her. “And there are wolves in the woods.” He started forward, pushing aside the tree branches to follow her. “Jillian!” he called out. But she was gone, and somehow he knew that he would not find her.

Giving up, he retraced his footsteps back to the stream and climbed the bank where his men waited. It wasn't until much later, when the torches on the battlements of Cilcerrig Castle flared in the distance, that he realized the only footsteps in the damp earth had been his own.

***

The men he chose to help him play out his charade spoke English without the telltale lilt of western Ireland. Even so, his story of duty in Dublin would serve him even better. After pulling out a doublet and hose from his saddle pack, he changed quickly, mounted his horse, and arranged the short English cloak so that it fell in folds around his shoulders. Then he surveyed his men, nodded with satisfaction, and approached the gates of Cilcerrig.

The guard took an interminably long time in returning, and when he did, it was with his lordship himself, Sir Robert Montgomery. “By whose orders are you sent?” Montgomery asked.

“Lord Leonard Gray wishes to learn of the circumstances of his kinsmen,” Donal answered.

“Who are you?”

“David Carlisle, heir to the earldom of Dunsany,” said Donal.

Robert squinted into the darkness. So much for his evening alone with Nell. The torches revealed three men mounted on English saddles wearing English clothing. He nodded to the guard, and the gate was pulled up.

Donal urged his mount across the bridge, through the portcullis, and into the courtyard. The linkboy who waited at the entrance to the hall was waved aside, and Donal watched his men lead the horses to the stable. They would dice and sup with Montgomery's guards, making sure the whiskey flowed freely.

Robert stood by the fire, pouring a dark wine into a glass of Venetian crystal. “You will join us at our table, Carlisle.”

Donal bowed and moved into the light. “I shall be honored, my lord.”

Robert Montgomery was the son of a Welsh hill woman and knew a fellow Celt when he saw him. He took one look at the young man walking toward him and knew that not one drop of English blood flowed through his veins. The lad was pure Celt from the V on his forehead dividing his face, preventing perfection, to the mist-gray of his eyes circled by rings of black, as black as the hair that fell in a primitive tangle to shoulders that had never spent a day in the mincing splendor of King Henry's court.

David Carlisle, or whoever he was, was a warrior. Only the frequent use of a claymore could have produced a chest and arms of such size. Robert kept himself fit by light eating and daily sparring, but he found himself puffing out his own chest and wishing that it was not too late to ask Nell to sup in her chambers and leave him alone with his guest. He would not measure up in comparison to this splendid young man who was very near to her own age.

The door opened, and Nell stood on the threshold. “Good evening, my lords,” she said in her lovely voice.

“Good evening, my love.” Robert, walking forward to lead her into the room, missed the sudden blanching of Donal's face as his eyes moved over Nell's figure. “You must welcome our guest, Lord David Carlisle, from Dublin. Your uncle has commissioned him to bring you a message.”

Nell had known David Carlisle for most of her life, and even though she saw only the man's back when she first entered the room, she knew at once who it must be. She kept her expression blandly pleasant and did not once betray the hurt in her heart at the wintry look in Donal's ice-gray eyes. “Welcome to Cilcerrig, my lord,” she said calmly. “I trust your journey was not difficult.”

“Not at all, Lady Montgomery.” He did not sound at all like the man she remembered. “Lord Gray is concerned for your welfare. To hear that you have settled in so well will bring him great joy.”

There could be no answer to such a comment, not when Robert was standing between them. “I am very hungry, my lord,” was all she said.

Nell could barely manage her soup. Taking no part in the conversation, she declined the fish and said very little when the roasted venison and onion gravy were placed before her. Pushing it around on her plate, she managed the appearance of a hearty appetite. Refusing the jellies, she stood. “Please excuse me, gentlemen.”

“My wife tires easily of late,” Robert explained to Donal. “The birth of our firstborn is imminent.”

Without waiting for Donal's reply, Nell left the hall and hurried up the stairs to her bedchamber.

She did not change into her night robe. Donal was there, and despite his foul mood, he must have come for her. Pulling her cloak around her, she climbed onto the bed and waited. The minutes passed slowly. Nell yawned, climbed off the bed, replenished the meager fire, and sat down in the rocker. Why would he not come?

She was wrong to have left him all those months ago. She knew that now. It was too much for a man, to ask him to wait, to put his needs behind that of a child not his own. At the time, it seemed to be the only decision she could have made. But it was the wrong one. She had accomplished nothing except to stir Henry's lust and involve herself in a marriage that would only serve to break the heart of the kindest of men. Better to have stayed with Donal and taken her chances on his ability to keep Gerald safe.

Nell shivered. The fire was low again, and her back felt stiff. Where was he? Perhaps he would not mind if she waited for him in the comfort of her bed. She crawled under the woolen blankets and pulled them up to her chin. Within minutes, her eyes closed, and she slept.