The Falcon's Bride (9 page)

Thea groaned. Things were happening just as they had on the battlements with Nigel. Her head began to swim. Blinding white pinpoints of light starred her vision. The last thing she heard before losing consciousness was Drumcondra’s thunderous voice shouting:

“Isor—
home!
”

Chapter Six

Thea groaned awake in a darkened chamber. No torches lit this cubicle. Elaborate sconces on the walls held beeswax candles. None were lit. A roaring fire in the hearth provided the only light. This was no cave. For a moment, she thought she was back at Cashel Cosgrove, but on closer inspection, she thought not; the trappings—even the composition of the walls—were too dissimilar. But if not Cashel Cosgrove, where was she?

She struggled upright. Her hands were no longer bound. She was lying in the center of a raised bed fitted with heavy brocade curtains that once might have been ivory in color, now a dingy brown. It was made with mounds of soft fur pelts. She was lost in them. What was she wearing? A shift of sorts, crudely made, though of serviceable stuff in a muted shade of wine, embroidered in threads of gold. It fit well, loose and flowing, the neckline square, revealing more of her charms than she would have liked. No matter that, it was far less revealing than the open-front fur pelerine,
whose closures the warlord had rent and which now lay draped across a Glastonbury chair in the corner. Another chair like it was positioned opposite. From it a figure rose and stepped out of the shadow-steeped umbra of the room. It was Drumcondra.

He strolled to the bedside gazing down, his arms folded across his chest. Divested of his fur mantle, he was just as massive as he had been cloaked. How broad his shoulders were. How narrow his waist. His dun-colored leggings were torn. They outlined every sinew and cord in his muscular thighs. The left one was bound with a linen strip stained with blood. Her eyes were riveted to it.

“It is nothing,” he said, answering her look. “Just a scratch.” He exhibited the dirk Cosgrove had left imbedded in his thigh. “Piddling excuse for a weapon,” he observed. “Not nearly powerful enough to kill a Drumcondra. But then, that was not his intent. He wants to prolong the agony.” Drawing another blade from his boot, he raised it. “Now this is a laudable weapon,” he said, turning it to and fro in the firelight. It was a fearsome-looking dagger, more like a sword, honed to a needle point, with a hilt of braided metal set with what appeared to be sapphires. He thrust it back in his boot.

Thea was still trying to make sense of her surroundings. That she could not was no surprise, since nothing thus far in her circumstance this side of Newgrange made any sense either.

“Is this place . . . ?” She trailed off, not quite knowing how to finish her question.

“What?” he erupted. “You think I
live
in that cave?” He burst into hearty laughter. How he could stand there laughing with blood oozing down his leg was beyond her. How he could even be on his feet was a mystery. The man must be made of iron, she decided. “You are at Falcon’s
Lair, my keep on the outskirts of Drogheda. Cashel Drumcondra was not my only residence, just my finest. The stronghold my wife Maeve preferred. It was also my most vulnerable. Unfortunately, she lived to discover that and regret her preference.”

“I’m . . . sorry.” Thea faltered.

Drumcondra’s eyebrow inched up a notch. “Maeve was no great loss,” he said, stirring the coals to new life in the grate. “I was cuckolded by the bastard who did this.” He slapped his bleeding thigh. “She was slaughtered, the foolish chit, when his horde laid siege to Cashel Drumcondra, because she was expendable. Once he had possession of the cashel, she was no longer of use to him. The bastard has mistresses aplenty. He used one of his liaisons with Maeve as a means to gain entrance, and then he killed her—or his men did. I was not there to see the deed done, only the aftermath. It doesn’t matter which. He is responsible. No, Maeve was no loss, but my children are quite another matter. Your betrothed and his horde raped and hacked them to death, my son and daughter, and their mother. I have seen cleaner chambers in the slaughtering house than the rooms where they were found.”

Thea was stricken speechless. She couldn’t meet his eyes. He had clearly been embittered by betrayal. Her first reaction was to reach out to him, then it became all too chillingly plain: No matter what, he planned to wreak vengeance upon Cosgrove by doing the same to her. The thought chased the blood from her scalp so rapidly that vertigo threatened.

“I see,” she murmured. “Y-you plan to . . . to retaliate in kind, then,” she said, trying to be strong.

He straightened from his chore at the hearth, and swaggered close. “Why did you warn me?” he asked.

“My lord?”

“You cried out a warning when the bastard came at me with this,” he replied, exhibiting the dirk. “Why did you do that? If he had succeeded, you would be in his arms now . . . not in my bed.”

That struck new terror in her heart.
His bed?
Of course it was. It was large enough to accommodate a giant. She should have known by the way he prowled the chamber, the way he tended the fire and emerged from the shadows as part of the architecture itself. She threw back the pelts and sprang away as though it were aflame.

“I feared for my life!” she shrilled, steadying herself against the bedpost. “Don’t flatter yourself that it was a benevolent act. It was a matter of which savage was to have sway over that life. If you want the truth, I thought it was to my best advantage to stay on that horse—I had designs upon it as an eventual means of escape, you see. I want no truck with either of you!” The words were edged to wound, though there wasn’t much truth in them except the bit about wanting nothing to do with either of them; and even that was suspect. How intrigued she was by this man!

And she viewed Cian Cosgrove with the same eye as she viewed Nigel, his descendant. Though Ros Drumcondra seemed by far the greater danger, somehow she felt safe in his keeping. This, despite the fact that he had manhandled her cruelly, subjected her to the humiliation of being exposed and molested before a stranger, and awakened her to secrets of the flesh without her consent. She knew he had not really hurt her, and he had prevented his men from meting out the stars alone knew what fate in the bowels of that dreadful cave.

Again, Drumcondra’s lips smiled but his eyes did not. What was that look? She couldn’t read it, only the accompanying clenched posture. It was as if she’d struck him
with her words. She didn’t regret that. She would not stroke the great lout’s vanity by admitting to her attraction.

The neck of her shift slipped off her shoulder, calling attention to the garment. She jerked it back into place, depriving his eyes of the view. She snatched her skirt and shook it.

“D-did you . . . ?” she murmured, almost afraid of the answer.

He threw back his head in a burst of lecherous laughter. It ran her through like a sword thrust. This time his smile did reach his eyes. They were spangled with coppery lights in the fire’s glow. He was grinning like a satyr.

“You little hypocrite,” he said. “You do not mind that I’ve decked you in fine homespun linen—”

“Is
that
what this itchy stuff is?”

“—just that my hand might have dressed you in it, eh?” he went on above her bluster. “And this despite that I have already . . . experienced your charms. You may allay your fears, fair lady. All proprieties were strictly met.”

“I am a prisoner here, then?”

“I prefer to call you my guest.”

“You never answered my earlier question.”

“What question might that be?”

“You know very well what question. I shan’t repeat it, sir.”

“That was no question. You’d made up your mind to it. Take care you do not make up
my
mind. I meant what I said to Cosgrove. It wouldn’t be wise to meddle with my . . . urges—in any form.”

Just then the sound of flapping wings and tinkling bells drew Thea’s attention to the hearthside and the candle stand that stood there, where the falcon perched in the deep dark shadows of the chimney corner, its head hooded in plumed leather. She hadn’t noticed it until that moment.
She gasped and skittered around the bed, putting it between them.

It was one thing when the bird had championed her on the battlements. It showed her no such instincts now. Her heart sank. It was as if the creature had betrayed her. This was clearly Drumcondra’s bird, under his command. She’d seen what it could do at his bidding, and she was afraid.

“Keep that creature away from me!” she shrilled.

“Isor will not harm you, fair lady. He is hooded and tethered . . . for now.”

“W-what do you mean?”

“When I leave this room, he will remain, but I will loose his tethers and remove his hood. He is my eyes when I am not near, you see.”

“You can’t mean to leave me in this room with that creature?”

Drumcondra nodded. “You will be quite safe—unless you try to leave.”

“My lord, I just saw that falcon tear a man’s eye from its socket. Is this your justice, then? Is this your retribution—to . . . to have it maul and peck me to death? It would be kinder to take that dirk there and drive it through my heart!”

“I am not disposed toward kindness.”

“But . . . did you not say you have no quarrel with me?”

“Just so, I have none, but that shan’t stop the inevitable from happening. Do not count upon it. You are exactly what I have been waiting for, the means of my ultimate revenge.” He slid his eyes the length of her. “And by the look of things, well worth the wait.”

His leg was bleeding badly, but he didn’t even seem to notice. Precious little of the white linen bandage remained that wasn’t blood-soaked, and Thea nodded toward it.

“Don’t you think you ought see to that?” she asked.

“In due course,” he replied. Striding to the candle stand, he loosed the bird’s jingling tethers and removed its hood. Its beady black eyes sought Thea out at once, and she hid behind the bed curtains, peeking out in furtive glances.

“You can’t mean to convince me that that bird really is your familiar,” she said haughtily. A familiar? A warlock’s creature?

“No, fair lady, not I,” he said. “I shall leave that up to Isor, himself.” Drumcondra strode to the door. All that blood and he wasn’t even limping! He turned.

“By the way, what
is
your name?” he asked.

“Thea . . . Theodosia Barrington,” she stammered.

He gave a dry grunt. “Deuced ghastly name. Theodosia. It doesn’t suit you at all. Thea will do.”

“My lord!” she cried, as he seized the door handle. “How long am I to be cooped up in here with that bird?”

“Until I come to bed,” he said from the threshold.

“Not this bed?”

“Yes,
this
bed, fair lady,” he replied through the door. “Where else?”

And the rasp of a key in the door’s lock sent shivers down Thea’s spine.

Alone, she eyed the bird suspiciously. Familiar, indeed! No such thing. It was a well-trained bird, like the ones her father kept at their country estate in Cornwall, nothing more. She had enough strange phenomena to deal with without crediting Gypsy magic. She had never been a superstitious sort. Still, the creature stared at her with the most humanlike eyes she had ever seen. There was no question that Cosgrove feared it. Was that bird the sole reason his army didn’t converge upon them? Were they so terrified of it? Evidently. They feared killing it as well. And she’d thought Cornishmen were superstitious.

What time could it be? She’d lost all track. How long had she been unconscious? It was just twilight when they’d confronted Cosgrove at the castle. What had Nigel said of the distance—five miles . . . five
hours
to reach Drogheda? Wrack her brain though she did, she couldn’t remember which. It wasn’t important then, but it was now. How long before he returned? Surely, he didn’t mean to sleep in that bed with her. But if not, why had he put her in this chamber? There must be plenty of others rooms he could have chosen.

She went to the window, wary of the bird following her every movement with its shiny onyx eyes. Her heart leapt when it made a clucking sound as she passed by. She gave it a wide berth. Outside, the moon shone down, casting dappled shadows over the courtyard. It all looked so unreal. Much smaller than Cashel Cosgrove, Falcon’s Lair stood in the middle of a wooded glen. A moat surrounded it, its banks hemmed with mounds of snow. The portcullis was lowered. She could see it clearly in the moonlight from her vantage in what must be one of several L-shaped wings. Even if she could escape her chamber, it would be next to impossible to escape the keep. The moat was far too deep, and the thin crust of ice crystals on the surface, while appearing solid, was surely too deceiving to chance crossing afoot unless the portcullis were raised to access the drawbridge. It would surely be guarded. That didn’t bode well.

Thea turned away from the window. The massive bed loomed before her. No! She would not sleep in it with Ros Drumcondra. Snatching several of the fur throws off the counterpane, she dragged them to the far corner of the chamber, putting as much distance between herself and the wily bird as possible, and made herself a pallet. It was a little farther from the hearth than was to her liking, but
there was nothing for it. She would not camp anywhere near the murdering bird. Her efforts were wasted, however. No sooner had she burrowed down beneath the furs, than the falcon took flight, soared across the room, and perched upon the back of a bench that matched the Glastonbury chairs an arm’s length from her. Thea groaned, and pulled one of the fur rugs over her head. Maybe the deuced bird
was
a familiar after all.

It wasn’t long before she fell sound asleep, cocooned amid the soft fur blankets.

Chapter Seven

Ros Drumcondra braced himself with one hand gripping each side of the settle in the stabler’s quarters. It wasn’t the first time Mossie McBain, the stabler, had stitched him back together after a melee, and it wouldn’t be the last—not while his enemy drew breath. Not while he roiled with bloodlust for Cian Cosgrove. Isor’s attack earlier had only whetted his appetite.