Riona (35 page)

“To a guilty eye perhaps,” Kieran replied.

“Or a drunken one,” Maille suggested in contempt.

Colga closed one eye and looked at the drink that threatened to spill from the tipped vessel’s edge, then switched to the other eye. With a snort, he shoved the cup toward Maille. “Here, Ulster. Have a look yourself.”

The wine did spill this time, smack into Maille’s face. With a vehement curse, he backed away and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Contain your new chief, Gleannmara, till he learns to drink with men.”

Kieran started up from the table, but a second squeeze of Riona’s hand restrained the man, if not his tongue. “Then leave, milord, that he might.”

Instead of taking offense, Maille gave Kieran a half smile. “We’ve a long journey home together, Gleannmara.”

It was a simple truth, yet it reeked of threat. Senan’s body was to be returned to Kilmare. Knowing Kieran was eager to return to Gleannmara with his bride and that Kilmare was on the way, Aedh Ainmire charged Maille and Kieran to the task.

“I came in hopes of mending the hard feelings between us, but I see that I speak to deaf ears.”

With a stiff bow, Lord Maille turned away. He gave Colga a long, seething look and retreated out of the hall.
Poor Colga
, Riona thought. He still blamed himself for Heber’s death. The fruit of the heath had made his guilt worse. Her cousin’s bitterness glittered like the sparks in
his father’s forge in the gaze that followed Maille from the room.

The moment Ulster cleared the open door, the entire room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. How well Riona knew that the dining daggers of the Dalraidi and Gleannmara clans might just as easily be turned to violence as to the succulent meats served in plenty all around them. Had Maille come in last night …

Riona shivered, recalling Kieran’s short temper. But tonight he’d held it. Had an epiphany come to him as it had to her? Finella was right. Gleannmara was trying and succeeding, though his barbed tongue needed more pruning.

“Thank you, Kieran.”

He looked at her, eyes wide, his goblet of ale poised at his lips. “Milady?”

“For taking the peaceful way rather than the violent.”

“I was ready for the blackguard either way,” a voice answered. “He’d have toes to match his black heart.”

It belonged to no one seated at the table but came from beneath the drape of fine linen covering the food board. Kieran lifted it to expose a small, round face set in determination. Proudly, Liex held up a stone the size of a warrior’s fist.

Kieran roared, not with anger but in amusement, as he dragged the boy up on the bench between him and Riona. “We’ve an irascible lot to redeem, milady.”

“Indeed, my niece has her plate full with the four of you,” Cromyn agreed. At Kieran’s disgruntled expression, both he and Riona chuckled.

“Faith, I’m celebrating, and my own wife turns against me!”

Riona leaned over Liex’s head and kissed Kieran on the cheek. “Never against you, Kieran. Always for you, with my love.”

He rose, trapping Liex between them and pulling her into his arms as if everyone else in the room had vanished. As Kieran lowered his lips to hers, Liex reminded him in no uncertain terms that that was
not
the case.

“Hey, whaddya tryin’ to do? Snuff out my breath?” His showman’s blood rising to the fore, Liex beamed at the ripple of laughter he’d instigated.

Kieran backed away from Riona just enough to grasp the boy by the sash at his waist. Lifting the lad with one arm, Kieran put him aside on the table as if he weighed no more than a basket of bread and returned to his original purpose: kissing his lady.

His lady
.

The idea was more intoxicating than all the heath fruit in Erin. Kieran’s senses were heightened, both in the physical and spiritual realm. While Riona’s undeniable outer beauty fascinated his eye, her inner beauty transformed his spirit. He wanted more than anything to please her, and that meant pleasing her God. To his astonishment, it was not nearly as burdensome a thought as he’d feared.

These last weeks with Riona had awakened more than his earthly senses. His need for her opened his eyes to his spirit’s need … for the pained emptiness, which had hardened the wall around his heart, to be filled. She’d never abandoned him in his time of trial, and neither had God. He knew it now. He should have picked it up at the time, but it took the brush with death at the race to open his eyes to the unseen Hand that protected him and his little band of fugitives. Leila’s warning to abandon the road just before Maille’s men passed … their chance meeting of Dallan’s troop of entertainers when he was wounded and Riona needed help …

Hindsight convicted him that nothing had been left to chance. He’d abandoned God, but God had not abandoned him. The frayed pieces of his life suddenly came together in that simple truth, which transcended place and time, for neither governed the spirit.

It did not, however, transcend the intrusion of Marcus’s wry comment: “Friend Gleannmara, whilst I marvel at the power of love to make one forget his surroundings, I’d suggest you save your energy for later.”

Snatched from the epiphany of heart and soul, Kieran reluctantly released his bride. Marcus was right. Fire flooded Riona’s porcelain features and danced in her eyes. Oh, to leap into their depths.

“Harumph.”

The last remnant of love’s spell snapped, as did Kieran’s words. “What
is
it, you ball-tossing nuisance?”

Marcus took a step back, as though wounded. “Indeed, milord, you were most willing to hear this ball-tossing nuisance’s advice on matters of the heart, but now that you’ve won your love’s desire, alas, you’ve no ear left for me.”

Kieran drilled the jongleur with an impatient stare. “I am much obliged, e’en though the merit of such advice is still in question.”

Dallan stepped forward. “Well said, sir. Marcus will take credit for hanging the sun if we let him.”

“But that is neither here nor there,” Finella added. “The fact is, we’ve wedding gifts for milord and his bride.”

“Heavenly days,” Riona exclaimed at Kieran’s side. “You owe us nothing. ’Tis we who owe you for all your help when Kieran was ill.”

“Milady,” Finella insisted, “I’ve taken the liberty of packing my apron of herbs in your things.”

“But that’s your means of making a living,” Riona protested.

“And I hope I’ve no need for them again,” Kieran chimed in heartily.

“With that temper of yours, you’d best take them,” Marcus advised, earning Kieran’s good-humored scowl.

“I’m making another,” Finella assured them. “It will be finished by the summer’s end. Meanwhile, I’ve little need for it in the bruden’s service. With your impetuous warrior and children about, ’tis wise to have such a collection.”

Kieran frowned. Something in Finella’s tone suggested she was offering more than precautionary advice. Her smile had faltered, and sobriety filled her voice. Had the woman seen something ahead that would require the use of the herbs? The men were always remarking how they yielded to Finella’s notions, for they were invariably right. Kieran was about to ask, when he was distracted.

“Marcus and I wish you to keep this.” Dallan reached over and tapped the brooch of Gleannmara, which held Kieran’s brat in kingly fashion. “Wear it proudly, friend, for that is what you are.”

Concern vanished with shock, and Kieran stood in stunned silence. When he’d given the brooch of his ancestors over to the gleemen in payment for their aid in reaching Drumceatt, it had been as though
he’d given away a piece of his soul. Since then, his soul had been filled by Riona’s love. Winning his bride was more important than a piece of jewelry regardless of the sentimentality attached to it. This overwhelming gratitude wasn’t something he was comfortable with. Its blade wedged in his throat, cutting with both edges.

“I … you …” Words failed Kieran. He shook his head and pushed the jeweled piece away. How could he equate the brooch’s sentimental value with what the gleemen had done for him? “No. This is the well-deserved payment of a debt.”

“And now it is a gift,” Marcus told him. “Don’t insult us by refusing.”

Kieran grabbed the entertainer and hugged him in a stiff, manly fashion. In turn, he thanked Dallan and Finella. Kieran’s soul, once nearly empty, now spilled over with abundance. “God keep you, good friends.”

I
t was well into the evening before Kieran and Riona were escorted to the guest cottage by their friends. As Kieran closed the door—shutting out the good wishes for health, long life, many children, and much pleasure in achieving all—Riona stared in disbelief at the nuptial bed. She was nervous enough as it was, but someone had draped it with mistletoe, enough to celebrate the Yule season rather than summer.

“Faith, someone has high expectations.” Kieran slipped up behind her. “I’d like an heir, not a litter.”

Riona laughed. It helped ease the apprehension that had increased with each step toward the lodge.

“You grab that side,” he told her.

Riona helped him remove the garland from the headboard of the bed. He gathered it up and tossed it in a corner with a wicked curl of his lips.

“ ’Tis only my bride I care about this night.” He walked around the bed and took her hands, lifting them to his lips. After kissing each one, he wrapped her arms around him. “Tonight we begin the loving and cherishing.”

Riona expected him to lay claim to her mouth as he lowered his face to hers but instead, he pressed his forehead against hers, peering into her eyes.

“There’s no need to be frightened, milady. I would never cause you harm.” He backed her against the bed and, hands on her shoulders, had her sit on the freshly fluffed mattress. It protested softly beneath the crush of her weight. Her heart leaped into double time.

Again she was fooled as Kieran placed a kiss on his finger and pressed it to her lips with a husky “Stay here.”

What went on in the wedding chamber had been left mostly to Riona’s imagination. Even though the physical act itself sounded disgusting,
she’d learned with a keen ear that men enjoyed it. And given the smile Riona’s mother, Ethna, wore when her father, Murtagh, was home, Riona assumed it was possible for women to take pleasure in it, too. But Ethna of Dromin hadn’t been given to talking about it like the servants, any more than had Queen Lorna, Riona’s foster mother at Gleannmara. Aside from ancient love stories and romantic eloquence of the Song of Songs on the subject, Riona had been left to her own devices to discern this most confusing aspect of life.

She wiped her hands on her skirt—blue for purity—painfully aware how her new linen shift clung to her like a second skin despite the pleasant coolness of the summer evening. This night she wished she’d not been quite as devoted to purity of thought. She simply hadn’t prepared to become a wife. She’d prepared to wed the church.

Anxiety gave way to impatience as she heard Kieran moving about in the other imda. What on earth was he doing? Heavenly Father, if he came in mother-naked, she’d faint. Riona had nursed men before, Kieran included, but this was different. This time Kieran was not just an extraordinary man, he was her husband.

From out of nowhere a loud hiccup—half gasp and half squeal—seized her breath. She grabbed at the sharp pain in her chest. Oh joy, this was just what she needed.

A rush of footsteps preceded Kieran into the small enclosure. “Are you ill?”

To her relief, he was still fully dressed … and carrying a basin of water. She shook her head and pointed to his burden. “What—hic—is that?”

His smile nearly overstretched the square of his jaw, he was so proud. “A foot bath,” he announced. The exotic scent of the water drifted up to her nostrils as he put the basin on the floor and reached for her slippered feet. Instinct bade her draw them away—Kieran of Gleannmara knew how sensitive her feet were and had tickled her breathless too many times to count. He chuckled as he caught them, his mind obviously drifting along the same path as hers. With an irascible twinkle in his eye, he mouthed the words, “Trust me.”

She’d promised to love, honor, and cherish. The trust part must have been implied.

The wary look on Riona’s face brought back memories, precious ones of a time Kieran often longed for, when their parents were the responsible ones and he, Heber, and Riona were free to game and frolic with unencumbered minds. Not everything had changed though. Riona was still as sweet and innocent as she’d been then, except now she was a woman. No longer was she his playmate, but his life mate. Her childlike spirit was tempered with a wisdom beyond her years and in some respects—such as faith—beyond his.

Kieran wanted to pinch himself to be sure that this was real, that Riona was his. He wanted this night to be perfect. Marcus had reminded him that somewhere in Scripture feet washing was a sign of love. Having had more experience with the gentler sex than Kieran, the self-proclaimed Tristan thought this might impress a devout lady and put her at ease. The gleeman had sought to teach Kieran an appropriate poem to recite as well, but it sounded so ridiculous that Kieran had abandoned it—and his chortling advisor. If Marcus laughed at him, Riona surely would.

“I did—
hic
—take a bath,” she reminded him as he put the slippers aside.

“This is a declaration of my love, milady.”

She cocked her head to the side, clearly bemused. Kieran hid a scowl. At least she hadn’t laughed. Kieran knew the game of seduction well when he dealt with a saucy wench whose appetite matched his own. But Riona’s fire had not been kindled in that manner. Those sparks he had seen beyond the glow of her joy made his blood simmer.

“You know, lass,” he explained, “just like one of the disciples did for his wife.”

The slender, dainty feet in his hand were cold, yet at the feel of them he reacted as though he’d been scalded. With a splash, he dropped them in the water before he was tempted by the cute clench of her toes to kiss each one into relaxing. He couldn’t recite his own name now, much less a poem.

“Hic
—my skirts!” With a jerk, Riona hiked up her hem in dismay.
“And I know of no disciple’s wedding in the Scripture—
hic.”