Wild Angel (12 page)

She didn’t finish, glancing behind her again to see
that Ronan had fallen back . . . to the same twenty lengths. And when she saw
him shrug, sitting fully upright as if he didn’t care that such a posture might
slow him down, a realization dawned on her that churned her stomach. The spawn!
He wasn’t trying to catch her. He was letting her win!

Triona yanked up on the reins so suddenly that Laeg
snorted in surprise, the stallion rearing and jabbing at the air as she wheeled
him around. She had to wait only a moment before Ronan had drawn alongside her,
to her annoyance his powerful stallion appearing to have barely worked up
a lather
.

"Have you been enjoying yourself?" she
demanded, rubbing Laeg’s sweat-glistening neck to calm him.

"I was going to ask the same of you," said
Ronan, struck more than he wanted to admit by the emerald fire in her eyes.

He had never known a woman who could look so beautiful
when angry, her cheeks flushed pink from her ride, her lush coppery curls wild
and billowing around her face. And her lips were as red as ripe berries as if
the wind whistling down from the great Lugnaquilla had chafed them.

"Now what are you staring at?"

"You," Ronan admitted. As her eyes flared in
surprise, he added quickly, "You’ve got straw in your hair."

"I do?" She raised her hand to check, then
just as suddenly
retook
the reins, exhaling with
exasperation. "You’ve got a fine way of changing the subject, but it won’t
work, O’Byrne. Why didn’t you try to catch me?"

"Begorra, now, is that what you wanted me to do?"
Her lips drew into a tight line, and Ronan found he was enjoying teasing her,
something he hadn’t done to anyone in years. "I thought you were merely
giving Laeg a good run. If it was a race you wanted, you should have said so .
. . though I doubt it would be a fair one."

"Oh no?" Triona tugged sharply on the reins
to keep Laeg from dancing sideways. "What are you saying, O’Byrne? That my
Laeg can’t hold his own against that . . . that disagreeable black beast of
yours?"

"This so-called disagreeable beast comes from the
finest racing stock in Eire," Ronan said calmly.

"So does Laeg! Do you think as the daughter of
Fineen O’Toole I’d ride anything less?" Triona suddenly smiled at him
archly. "I know why you won’t ride against me, and it has nothing to do
with Laeg."

He remained silent.

"It’s because I’m a woman, isn’t it? You truly don’t
think I could beat you, so you’re not even willing to let me try. Are you
afraid you might lose, O’Byrne?"

She knew she’d hit her mark from the anger now glinting
in his eyes, but to her surprise his reply was remarkably steady. "Do you
see that cairn in the distance?"

She nodded, tense excitement gathering inside her.

"I’ll give you a five-length lead . . . so
whenever you’re ready . . ."

She didn’t wait to hear more, her heels digging into
Laeg’s sides.

"Fly, Laeg! Fly with you!"

She’d never felt such exhilaration as they plunged at a
full canter toward the cairn, nor did she waste a moment to glance behind her.
She knew Ronan was riding hard and fast to catch up with her, her taunting
challenge no doubt burning like fire in his veins. Just as she burned to beat
him.

"Come on, Laeg! Come on!" The world around
her became a blur as she focused every ounce of her will upon the cairn that
loomed ever larger. The pounding of hooves rang like thunder in her ears, a
thunder that grew more deafening as Ronan’s black stallion appeared like an
ominous cloud out of the corner of her eye . . . drawing closer and closer
until horse and rider were lunging right alongside her.

"Laeg, run! Run!" They were almost there, the
circular pile of stones only a mere ten lengths away . . . so close, so close—

Triona gasped as she was suddenly swept from her horse,
Ronan’s powerful arms encircling her as both steeds forged past the cairn. She
was so stunned that she could only gape at him, her breath snagged in her
throat, his embrace so tight that she swore she could feel his heartbeat
through her back.

It seemed to take forever for them to stop. Even when
they finally did, Ronan’s mount heaving beneath them, Triona could not speak.

Had she been in some danger? Immediately her gaze flew
to Laeg; she was relieved to see that he was safe and drinking from a stream.
Then why . . . ?

Ronan saw the question in her eyes, but in truth, he
wasn’t sure what madness had spurred him to grab her from her horse. And now
that he held her so close, her taut bottom wedged between his thighs, her very
nearness wreaking havoc with his senses, he felt decidedly reluctant to let her
go. By God, what was this wild hoyden doing to him?

In the next instant her elbow ground into his ribs,
hitting the same spot she’d jabbed once before.

"Damn you, O’Byrne, what were you thinking? I
could have been killed! You could have dropped me! I . . . I could have been
trampled!"

"You said you wanted me to catch you," he
said through clenched teeth.

"You spawn, not like that!"

Her outrage like a dousing of cold water to his
inflamed senses and his reason, Ronan nonetheless tightened his hold in spite
of her wriggling, pinning her arms against her body.

"I could have won if you’d left me alone! I was
ahead and you know it. You couldn’t bear the thought of losing!"

Ronan didn’t point out that their horses had been nose
to nose. She would never believe him.

"Very well, I’ll grant that Laeg was ahead . . .
barely. You would have won."

Since Triona could not raise his ire that way, she
changed her tack. "All right, O’Byrne, enough! Let me down!"

Renewing her struggles, she sharply inhaled when one of
his arms wedged beneath her breasts. She’d no more opened her mouth to protest
when he said huskily against her ear, "What’s wrong, Triona? You don’t
find it pleasant to be held by a man?"

She froze, stunned.

If she had been trying to ignore the disconcerting
sensation of his arms around her, she was acutely conscious of it now. But that
wasn’t all. As he shifted, she felt his hard thighs rubbing against her hips,
the heat of his body and his warm breath upon her neck making her stomach feel
all aquiver.

"I think you do find it pleasant,"
came
his whisper as his arm slid gently along the undersides
of her breasts. "Probably more than you would have ever imagined. Have you
ever allowed a man to hold you like this before?"

"N-no." Triona felt her flesh burst into
goose bumps as Ronan drew her even closer against him.

"Do you like it?"

Like it?
Triona could hardly speak for the fierce pounding of her heart, his embrace
conjuring vivid memories from long ago. Memories of watching him hold other
women as he was doing to her now, holding
them
and
caressing them as they laughed and sighed and offered their willing mouths for
him to kiss . . . Jesu, Mary and Joseph, was he going to kiss her?

"I said do you like it, Triona?"

"Aye," she heard herself reply as if from a
great distance, an incredible yearning overwhelming her. "It’s very nice .
. ."

Ronan knew from his slamming heartbeat that he’d gone
far enough, and he reluctantly began to release her. "Then you can see you
have nothing to fear. One day soon your husband will hold you like this and you’ll
like it as well—by God, woman!"

Ronan cursed as his horse suddenly bucked wildly beneath
them, Triona giving the animal’s ear a second sharp yank as she shoved Ronan
backward with all her might. The next thing he knew he had hit the ground,
hard, while Triona grabbed the reins and expertly wheeled around his stallion.

"Are you deaf, O’Byrne? I told you many times I
want no husband and I meant it! But mayhap a good stretch of the legs might
better convince you!"

Roaring in fury, Ronan lunged to his feet but she was
gone. And he had no sooner glanced at Laeg when a shrill whistle sent the huge
bay galloping after her, his black tail flying. Ronan had to throw himself
aside as the whinnying animal almost ran him down.

"Triona!"

Spitting out grass as he picked himself up for the
second time, Ronan stood silently for a long moment before uttering an oath he
hoped she’d hear all the way across the glen.

Chapter 10

TRIONA WAS SURROUNDED by shouting O’Byrne clansmen
before she reached the gates, several riding out after Ronan when she angrily
gestured where they could find him. Even Niall came running at the sound of the
commotion, but she rode past him, ignoring his openmouthed astonishment at
seeing her astride Ronan’s horse, Laeg trotting behind.

She went right to the stable, dismounting and tossing
the sweaty stallion’s reins to a gaping servant and then leading Laeg back into
his stall. She would have seen to his care, too, if her hands hadn’t been
trembling so badly.

After giving another servant the necessary
instructions, she left, scarcely able this time to summon a smile as Conn
bounded across the yard to greet her. All she wanted to do was escape to her
room where she could scold herself soundly for being a fool.

Aye, and what a fool! How could she have thought for a
moment that Ronan might want to kiss her? He wasn’t the least bit interested in
her . . . not in
that
way. He simply
wanted to ease her supposed fears so he could marry her off and then forget
about her, his obligation fulfilled.

But what made her even angrier as she stormed into the
dwelling-house was that she had wanted him to kiss her.

Ronan O’Byrne!

Her brother’s murderer!

And even if there wasn’t that foul blood between them,
Ronan was only another man who would not accept her as she was, just like
Murchertach O’Toole. Not that she’d ever wanted to kiss that brawny oaf. Or for
him to kiss her. Shoving open the door to her apartment, she grimaced.

"Triona, what happened to your gown?"

As Aud hastened toward her, Triona glanced down at the
rumpled garment that reeked decidedly of horse sweat.
"Nothing
that burning won’t cure."

"Burning! Surely a good washing will do. And your
hair could use one, too, sweeting. You’ve some straw—"

"So I was told," she groused, about to run
her fingers through her hair until she spied the jumbled assortment of bound
chests and furnishings that had been stacked against one wall.

"Your things finally arrived from Imaal," Aud
said, following her gaze. "Didn’t you see the wagon outside? They just
finished unloading. Made quick work of it, too."

"There was no wagon," Triona replied, at
least none that she remembered. But she’d been so
furious,
she wasn’t surprised she’d overlooked it.

"Then they must have gone to the kitchen for some
food before the journey back. The O’Toole’s men apologized for the delay."

"No doubt caused by Murchertach," Triona said
under her breath. It was very hard to hear him addressed as chieftain instead
of her father. But seeing her inheritance stacked in her room was even harder.
The trunks and treasured objects had once belonged to her parents, had once
graced their home. It was all she had left from her years in Imaal. Murchertach
as her father’s successor had gained all else.

"I’ll call for some hot water so you can bathe . .
. unless you’d rather not be alone, sweeting."

"I’ll be fine, Aud." Triona walked over to a
table and ran her palm across the finely carved wood.

She knew when the door shut softly that her maid had
left, but she didn’t look up. Instead, she skimmed her hand over a
sturdy-backed chair, one of four that had always held a place in front of the
hearth. Touching the smooth wood, she could almost hear again her father’s
laughter as he listened to some tale . . . hear his snores resounding through
the dwelling-house whenever he fell asleep in front of the fire.

Sighing, Triona moved on.

There was an oaken headboard, too, richly carved by
Irish craftsmen during the reign of King Brian Boru two centuries before the
Normans had come to Eire. Reaching over a stack of chests so she might trace
the intricate filigree patterns, Triona cursed when her arm hit the topmost
coffer, accidentally knocking it to the floor with a crash of splintering wood.

"Begorra, you clumsy. . ." Triona recognized
the small brass-fitted chest as one that had belonged to her father.

She knelt and righted it, relieved to find upon first inspection
that the sturdy coffer appeared sound. She popped the latch and tilted back the
lid to look inside at the masculine array of items: a neck torque of twisted
gold, a huge pair of winter gloves lined with marten, cloak-pins, heavy silver
brooches . . .

A fresh pang caused Triona to slam down the lid. Her
anguish was heightened by anger that nothing yet had been done to avenge her
father’s death.

"Damn you, Ronan, you’d better not have lied about
making that Baron de Roche pay!" she muttered fiercely as she rose,
bringing the chest with her. Or so she thought she had. To her surprise, the
wooden bottom suddenly gave way with a sharp crack and fell to the floor,
barely missing her toes. As had the jeweled dagger lying glittering at her
feet.

"Dagger . . .?" She had seen no dagger inside
the coffer—and why hadn’t everything else fallen out, too?

Holding fast to the lid, Triona upended the chest.
There had been two bottoms, the space between them just big enough to hold the
dagger. But why would her father have hidden such a thing?

Her thoughts scattered as approaching footfalls sounded
from the outer room, their course so ominously determined she could swear she
felt the floor shaking beneath her feet. She knew it wasn’t Aud hurrying back
to tell her that her bathwater would soon be ready.