The Falcon's Bride (27 page)

Cosgrove laughed. It was a bone-chilling sound. “Not exactly perfume from the London shops, eh?” he said. “You’ll get used to it. We’ll be here awhile before we head back to my keep with what spoils my men can carry—long enough for us to get to know each other . . . in the Biblical sense, that is.” Thea shuddered, and he threw back his head in a mighty guffaw. “Oh, aye, we will,” he said.

“You are naught but an animal to have done such as this,” said Thea. The passage of time had softened the devastation. It was a horrible sight now, having just occurred.

“Ahhh, but I did
not
,” he said. “You’ve Drumcondra’s Gypsy whore to thank for it. I only came on after to avenge
this
.” He tugged at his eye patch. “And you. He put up a good fight, did Drumcondra, but as you can see, I have taken this keep from him as well. A pity he was so . . . distracted. Was that because of you or that whore of his, eh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Drina, his Gypsy whore set the fire. I only cleaned up after it,” he said. “The jealous bitch thought to burn the both of you in your bed, but you weren’t in that bed, were you? She paid with her life in that blaze.”

“Drina is
dead
?” Thea breathed. How could that be? How, when it was the pelerine that had taken Drumcondra
from the present? “Where is Ros?” she demanded. “What have you done with him?”

“He tried to save his ragtag band, and failed,” said Cosgrove. “My army was too great for him. It has always been thus.”

“Where is he? What have you done with him?”

“Done with him?” Cosgrove asked. “Why, I have killed him, madam. Ros Drumcondra is dead.”

Chapter Twenty-one

When would her death come? When would she disappear as Drumcondra had done—as history had set it down? These were the morbid thoughts overwhelming Thea then, as she sat grieving for Ros, locked in yet another chamber in the remains of Falcon’s Lair.
Drumcondra is dead
. She could scarcely believe it. Had all her efforts to save him from death in the fire been for naught? Had he only returned to meet his inevitable fate in spite of those efforts? Perhaps she hadn’t changed history after all. Perhaps it couldn’t be changed. Perhaps it was his time to die. But what of her if that were so? Why was she still living? Her head ached for those thoughts banging around in her brain. She was exhausted, and they gave her no peace. She dared not sleep in any case. Cian Cosgrove had locked her in one of the chambers off the gallery over the kitchens that the fire hadn’t reached, and left her there. It was only a matter of time before he returned, and she was terrified.

The chamber cell was one she had never seen. It was
smaller than Drumcondra’s chamber, and was likewise sparely furnished, boasting an elevated bed, a boot chair, and a small drum table. The floor was bare, the hearth unlit. Thea was freezing, but she would not light it. She would in no way cater to Cosgrove’s comfort in her husband’s house—even if it meant sacrificing her own. Instead, she dragged a fur throw off the bed and wrapped herself in it over her woolen cloak. He would not find her waiting in that bed when he returned. She curled instead in the stiff-backed boot chair. At least its rigid antiquity would keep her from falling asleep. Only one goal drove her then—escape. She would not become Cian Cosgrove’s love slave. She’d sooner be dead.

How she wished she had wings like the great bird and could take flight. She shut her eyes and imagined herself sailing on the wind high above the wounded battlements. She saw herself dipping and gliding, borne upon an updraft . . . free. She hadn’t seen the bird since she drove the Andalusian north to flee both pursuers. She almost laughed. She actually missed the creature. What she wouldn’t give to see it now.

Dragging herself to her feet, she tugged the fur rug close about her and went to the window. Every sinew in her body ached from the rough handling of her capture. Squinting through the dingy glass, she searched what scant scrap of land and sky she could see for some sign of the bird. There was none. The sky was gray with the threat of snow, and empty of life, which in itself seemed odd, since birds always gathered inland before a storm—especially sea birds, and Falcon’s Lair was close to the sea.

Had the falcon extracted its revenge? Had it deliberately led her to this end, captive of a barbaric border lord who seemed more medieval in his thinking and methods than a seventeenth-century Irish chieftain? She was loath
to believe it. But even if it were true, she longed to see it again, his familiar, because it was her only link to him.

When the door opened at her back, the glass rattled in its casings. Only then did she feel the puff of cold air coming through. The glass was cracked in two places, hanging by a thread. One sliver had already fallen to the floor. A stiff wind would likely dislodge the rest. Could it have burst from the heat of the fire? A pity the chamber wasn’t on the main floor of the keep instead of two towering stories high. The window frame was wide enough that she might have crawled through it if that had been the case.

Thea spun to face Cian Cosgrove as he entered bearing a crock, and a basin heaped with fruit and cheese. He slapped the burden down on the drum table, and faced her, arms akimbo. He was not the giant Drumcondra was, though he was taller than she remembered of her first glimpse of him in the courtyard at Cashel Cosgrove. Then she had viewed him at a higher vantage, however, from the back of Drumcondra’s Gypsy stallion. He was fair, his hair the color of summer wheat and did not quite reach his shoulders. His eyes were smoky blue, tucked well beneath the ledge of his sun-bleached brows. But for the scar the falcon’s beak and talons had left behind that ran the length of his face from eye patch to chin, he might have been considered attractive. His resemblance to Nigel was even more uncanny at close range. She gasped in spite of herself, taking his measure.

“So,” he said. “Our wedding night has come at last.”

“There has been no wedding,” she snapped. “I see no priest.”

“I am no papist.”

“Vicar, then,” she served.

“And where did Drumcondra find a priest?” he asked. “Or did he marry you by Gypsy rite as I supposed, the heathen?”

Thea didn’t answer. He had begun to circle her, raking her familiarly with his cold-eyed stare. Despite all her layers of clothing, she felt naked under his gaze.

“How did you kill him?” she asked, backing away as he began to close the circle. Though she dreaded to know, she had to hear.

“Easily,” he pronounced.

“I want to know how he died.” She persisted. “You owe me that.”

“
Owe
, is it? A curious word. I owe you nothing, but I will tell. The tale will be told by the fires and in the camps of men long after you and I have turned to dust, madam.”

No, it shan’t
, Thea wanted to say.
I have heard the history of Ros Drumcondra, and no such tale glorifying Cian Cosgrove was ever recorded.
This, however, was not the time to share that news, and when she spoke it was to take a different tack.

“So, what harm to tell it, then?” she said, as calmly as she could manage, considering that he had come so close she could smell the unwashed odor of him drifting from his dingy, soot-stained clothes and skin.

He shrugged. “None,” he agreed, folding his arms across his broad chest. “He brought it upon himself. He had come to my keep with some of his Gypsy minions to see if I had given in to his ridiculous demands. I knew he would, and I was ready for him.”

How well Thea remembered the night she left James behind and fled Falcon’s Lair in search of Drumcondra, to lure him into the corridor and save him from the fire. Cold chills gripped her hearing that event recounted from Cosgrove’s lips.

“My soldiers by far outnumbered the scraggly few he’d brought along, and he retreated. It would have ended then, because he could not win against us, but then you
appeared. At first I thought you were escaping Falcon’s Lair—returning to me—but I see now that it was quite something . . . else. We will come back to that. Drumcondra broke ranks and followed you. The others scattered, and in the confusion you and Drumcondra escaped us heading north. So you see I knew he was not at Falcon’s Lair when we reached it. That is why we came on instead of turning back when his band dispersed, to take the keep in his absence like we did before. The place was already ablaze when we reached it; the whore who set the fire plunged from the battlements in flames before our very eyes. We heard the tale from those who lived long enough to tell it afterward.”

“None of you tried to find him?” said Thea. “Strange. I would have thought it the first thing you would do, considering your bloodlust for the man.”

Cosgrove shrugged again. “Not really,” he said. “Life was much more interesting while he lived to spar with me. I wasn’t out for his blood. Drumcondra and I are old adversaries, madam. Our feud is rooted in the mists of time—”

“What started it?” Thea interrupted. She had always been curious about that.

Again he shrugged. “A woman, what else, eh?”

“If, as you say, you did not want to kill him, why did you?”

“He gave me no choice.”

“G-go on . . .”

“Taking Falcon’s Lair was not difficult. The few remaining lackeys and sentries and pitiful excuses for fighting men that did not meet us in battle fled without their leader to marshal them. He should have never returned, but he did. He rounded up and regrouped his men, and marched on us here. You were not with him, madam. Where did he have you?”

“At Si An Bhru,” she flung at him, her whole body loosing
the words, “Where you would not come because you fear its magic.”

He growled. “Take no comfort in my supposed fear of
anything
,” he said. “I know it not. Cian Cosgrove fears neither man on earth nor devil in hell.”

“You have not told me how you killed him.”

“You will not like hearing it.”

“I need to know.”

He studied her quizzically for a moment. “Why?” he asked at last, his tone suspicious.

“To . . . to put it all behind me.” She faltered. “I have no body to bury, sir—not even that. The least you, his murderer, can do, is tell me why and how you killed him. I should think such would appeal to your bloodthirsty nature.”

“You will have—a body to bury, that is—once the snow melts,” he said. “He died by my sword. I ran him through in defense of my life. The snow ran red with his blood. A new storm covered his remains, just as it did many others. You will find them littering the land where they fell, come spring.”

Thea gulped down tears. She would not give him the satisfaction. There was a sense of smug pride in his delivery; he would have no reason to lie. Inside, it was as if her heart were bleeding. She was devastated to think that Ros lay below within her reach, but too late. How could she bear it?

Cian seized the fur rug wrapped around her, and she tightened her grip upon it.

“Come, come,” he said. “Your modesty does not suit. I have already seen what lies beneath all those layers. You have your ‘husband’ to thank for that. He made it a point to show it me, if you recall.”

“That does not signify,” she said haughtily, yanking the fur rug out of his hand. “I did not give myself to him until
we were wed. What makes you think I would give myself to the likes of you without benefit of clergy?”

“I could easily take you, madam.”

“You could,” she replied. “But if you did it would be the last, because if I could not kill you, I would kill myself. My life means nothing without Ros Drumcondra. You will not demean me. I may not bear a title, sir, but I am still a lady, and I will not heel to rape.”

“You will ‘heel’ to whatever happens to be my pleasure, madam,” he said, gravel-voiced. The muscles along his angular jaw line had begun to tick, and his nostrils flared. “You needn’t fear that I will trouble you overmuch. I have whores aplenty to service me. But our union will make legitimate heirs, and you will suffer it. That is why our marriage was arranged.”

“Take me now, and your ‘legitimate heir’ may be Drumcondra’s issue,” she sallied. It came to her in a flash, and not a minute too soon, judging from his leering expression.

“Eh?” he grunted, bearing down upon her with shuttered eyes.

“I have had no courses since I last shared Drumcondra’s bed,” she said, backing away from the look in his smoky blue eyes. “If you would be sure of an heir, you had best curb your urges until I am past my next monthly flow.”

“You speak strange words,” he said. “Do all Englishers speak thus?”

“What would you prefer, ‘until I have come again in season’? You understand my meaning, sir. You must wait . . . or you might never know whose son I bear. Unless, of course, it does not matter to you? It does not matter to me, you understand. I would welcome raising Drumcondra’s son no matter who thought he was his father.”

“If you bear his child, madam, I will kill it!” Cosgrove seethed.

“Then you see how important it is that we wait.”

Cosgrove stared long and hard at her, his broad chest heaving. His rage was palpable, and though she had clearly gone too far, and never before felt such fear in the presence of any man, Thea held her head high in its presence.

The warrior began to pace, taking ragged strides the length of the cell, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists braced on his hips. It was almost longer than she could bear before he stopped and turned to face her. When he spoke, his words were spat forth with an edge.

“All right, madam,” he said. “We shall have it your way, but it comes at a price. You shall have your reprieve . . . until we are certain. But then—oh,
then
, I promise you, you will wish you never gave your virtue to the likes of Ros Drumcondra!”

Stomping toward the door, he paused beside the drum table and swept it clean of basin, cheese and fruit, smashing the crock to shards on the cold stone floor. The nutsweet brew it held bled toward Thea in a ragged, froth-edged circle, but she held her ground, standing tall, with the bearing of a queen, wrapped in the fur blanket.