Wild Angel (2 page)

"Godfather!"

Muttering an oath, Fineen hoped the Normans hadn’t
heard the boyish cry that echoed through the darkening woods. Bracing his arm
beneath the sleeping babe, he didn’t wait for Ronan to reach him but set off at
a fast lope, meeting his black-haired godson halfway up the rise.

"Where’s Conor?" he demanded between hard
breaths as Ronan drew his snorting mount to a halt, a powerful red gelding that
the strong-limbed boy handled with ease.

"Coming, Godfather. We decided to race to find
you. . . Ronan’s voice trailed off, his startled gaze moving to the plump
bundle in Fineen’s arms, at the small white arms now flailing the air. But
before he could say a word, Fineen hastily concocted a story to silence him.

"The babe’s parents are dead. Wolves. I found the
poor thing tucked in the hollow of a tree, crying her lungs out. Take her
now—while I climb up behind you."

His gray eyes widening, Ronan appeared at such a loss
to have a squirming bare-bottomed babe thrust into his arms that Fineen almost
laughed. His bold godson undone by a wee bit of a girl? That was worthy of some
teasing tonight at supper.

"But . . . but what if—"

"Begorra, lad, it would do you no harm save to
your pride," Fineen broke in, settling himself behind Ronan. "Hand me
the child and let’s be off."

Ronan seemed more than relieved to surrender his
burden, especially when the babe’s tightly curled fist caught him squarely on
the jaw as he handed her over his shoulder to Fineen.

"I don’t think she likes me, Godfather."

"Nonsense, boy. She’ll like you well enough. Just
give her a chance."

Ronan’s eyes grew all the rounder. "You’re going
to keep her, then?"

"Aye, I’m going to keep her! Did you think I’d be
throwing her back to the wolves? Now ride with you, Ronan O’Byrne. Save your
hundred questions for when we’re out of these woods."

Gently cradling the babe once more inside his jerkin,
Fineen was glad when Ronan obeyed and kicked the eager gelding into a gallop.
He was gladder still when he saw Conor appear at the top of the rise, his
handsome, good-natured son unperturbed that Ronan had beat him. They were as
close as brothers.

"Conor, look what your father’s found!" cried
Ronan, throwing a secretive grin behind him at Fineen. "Tucked in the
hollow of a tree, no less!"

Although deciding he couldn’t have invented a better
story, Fineen knew he’d have to tell his wife of twenty years the truth. There
was no use in attempting to keep anything from Alice; she could read him as if
he were the clearest mountain stream. But all would be well.

Alice had a good heart. She would understand the need
to protect the child, no one other than herself ever to know that the babe was
Norman. Besides, like him, she had always wanted a daughter, having been barren
since Conor’s birth.

"Aye, Eva, your wee one will be safe with us,"
Fineen whispered fiercely to himself as Conor drew his sweaty horse alongside
them. His son’s blue eyes grew as round as Ronan’s had earlier as Ronan grinned
and gestured to the babe nestled in Fineen’s arms.

After all, he had sworn.

Chapter 1

Ireland, 1210

"AH, YOU MUST make haste, make haste! He has
little time left!"

Barely inside the stockade gates,
Ronan
O’Byrne dismounted heavily, obliging the wizened, stoop-shouldered healer who
had rushed forward to greet him. His countenance grim, he had only to nod to
his men for them to understand they should wait for him there. Then he strode
with the healer toward the hall, the stockade yard eerily silent around them. O’Toole
clansmen stood in somber knots while the women went about their work silently.
Wide-eyed children, forbidden to play, forbidden to make a peep, clustered into
doorways to watch curiously as Ronan passed by.

"‘Tis Black O’Byrne, the rebel! Chieftain of the
Glenmalure O’Byrnes!" he overheard one disobedient young boy exclaim to a
taller youth who answered with awe in his voice.

"Aye, would that I
were
old enough to join his daring band."

"Oh aye, me, too!" proclaimed the younger one
just before both boys were silenced by a sharp cuff to the ear from their
stern-faced mother.

"Have some respect, lads! The O’Toole is dying."

The woman’s words cutting through him as cleanly as an
ice-cold knife, Ronan missed nothing as he and the healer crossed the yard.

It was strange how everything appeared much the same.
Even though Ronan had not entered this stockade for twelve years the memories
were still fresh; the pain always with him. Twelve long years ago Fineen O’Toole
had banished him forever from the glen of Imaal, cursing Ronan for Conor’s
death.

It had been a freakish accident, yet Fineen’s terrible
grief had left him blind to reason. Over the years, Ronan had made several
attempts at reconciliation only to be rebuffed. Even when Fineen lost his
beloved wife, Alice, five years past, Ronan’s message of sympathy had been
refused. Now his stubborn godfather had summoned Ronan to his deathbed and he
had come, unsure what to expect.

"It is bad, Ronan, very bad," the withered
little man warned him as they entered the tomblike hall. He followed the healer
into the sleeping chamber on the left; someone gently closed the door behind
them.

The stuffy candlelit room reeked sickeningly of death,
making his eyes water. Fineen’s wounds had putrefied and now nothing could save
him, not even the cowled priest, stout as a barrel, who intoned prayers in the
corner. Clenching his jaw so hard that it hurt, Ronan moved to the bed and
looked down upon the man whom he had loved as a second father.

The robust Fineen O’Toole he had known was gone, his
full russet beard now scraggly against sunken cheeks as yellowed as parchment,
his once powerful physique wasted.

"Lord, he is here," announced the healer in a
hushed, respectful voice. He gestured for Ronan to draw closer. "Your
godson, Black O’Byrne, is here."

With apparent effort, the dying chieftain turned his
head. Ronan ignored the stool offered to him by one of the veiled women in the
room. Instead, he knelt on one knee beside the bed.

"Ronan?"

"Aye, Godfather." Again Ronan had to swallow
against the choking tightness in his throat. If Fineen’s body had changed, his
piercing gaze had not. His blue eyes, so very much like Conor’s, still burned
brightly.

"I knew you would come." The familiar gruff
voice, half whisper, half rasp, struggled on. "I was wrong . . . about
Conor . . . blaming you. Forgive me."

Stunned, Ronan could not speak. He had waited a long
time to hear those words. As Fineen offered his bony hand, Ronan took it,
astounded by the fierceness of his godfather’s grip.

"My adopted daughter . . . Triona," Fineen
continued brokenly, his breathing labored, his pale cracked lips barely moving.
"She will have no one when . . . when I am gone. Swear to me, Ronan. Swear
you will protect her."

Triona. The copper-haired babe Fineen had found crying
in the woods, her parents killed by wolves. The babe who’d grown into a sweet
little girl who adored her older brother, and mayhap Ronan as well. She’d
always seemed delighted with the small trinkets he brought her whenever he came
to Imaal although other than that, he’d scarcely had time to pay her much heed.

She couldn’t have been more than eight winters when
last he had visited Imaal. At that time he had come from his home glen to fetch
Conor to join him and his clansmen on a raid. Except Conor did not return
alive.

Sighing heavily, Ronan thrust the painful images of
that day from his mind.

"Your daughter has no husband to look after her?"
he asked, realizing Triona would be twenty by now and long past the age when
she should have wed.

Ronan was surprised by Fineen’s response, a dry cough
that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

"No . . . not married."

Must be ugly as a hound, Ronan thought, although he
recalled the girl as being pretty enough. Perhaps the pox had scarred her face.
Or perhaps she was overly pious.

His musing was interrupted as Fineen’s cough became a
long hacking spell that left the chieftain visibly weaker. As if he sensed that
the
end were
drawing near, Fineen once more met Ronan’s
eyes.

"You must swear, Ronan. You were like a son to me .
. . family. Swear you will take my daughter into your care!"

Puzzled by the urgency of Fineen’s request, Ronan
nonetheless nodded. In truth, he wanted no such obligation, his raids upon the
hated Normans and the pressing cares of his clan already consuming him. But he
could not refuse a dying man.

"Say it, Ronan!"

"Aye, I swear. She has my protection."

His words were greeted by a rattling sigh as Fineen
closed his eyes, his head lolling upon the stained pillow. Ronan heard one of
the veiled women burst into tears. Triona?
he
wondered.

"It cannot be long now," said the healer,
running his palm across the chieftain’s sallow forehead.

At this pronouncement more women joined in the weeping,
and the priest began to pray louder when Fineen still did not open his eyes. As
if he were praying in unison the chieftain began to mumble, but Ronan could not
understand what he was saying until he leaned closer.

"
Must not . . . must
not
know the truth about Triona . . . Must not know. . ."

Glancing at the healer, who shrugged and shook his
head, Ronan whispered in Fineen’s ear, "What do you mean, Godfather? I don’t
understand. . . ."

Ronan’s query was answered by a low gurgling sound,
Fineen’s shriveled hand once more gripping his as tightly as a claw. Then it
abruptly went limp.

For a long moment, Ronan stared at Fineen’s face,
oblivious to the wild keening crescendoing behind him. But at last he sighed
and rose to his feet.

Except for the glowing candles at the head of the bed,
the room was dark, the grief stricken women swathed in shadows. He wondered
again which one might be Triona. As a dutiful daughter, he imagined she had
kept a close vigil in this room, but was too modest to come forward. That
pleased him. Such maidenly virtues would make his task as her guardian all the
easier.

Ronan looked up at the sudden commotion beyond the
door.

"What do you mean my father summoned that bastard
Black O’Byrne to his bedside? Get out of my way! I will enter, I tell you!"

At the sound of a scuffle outside the chamber, the
women’s wailing became shocked gasps. Ronan frowned as the door burst open,
five strapping clansmen spilling into the room. At their center, he saw a flash
of copper hair and two slender arms thrashing wildly.

"I said let me pass! Murchertach O’Toole, you may
be my father’s Tanist but you’ve no right to hold me back like this! I want to
see my father!"

"Begorra, man, look out for her fists!"
warned one of the clansmen.

"Aagh, Triona, why’d you have to stomp on my foot?
I think you’ve broken my toes!" another cried out.

"You deserve worse than that for blocking my way,
you . . . you—"

"By God, let her pass!" Ronan’s stern command
was answered by stunned silence as all faces turned toward him. "Is this
riot the honor owing to a dead chieftain?"

"Dead?"

The hoarse exclamation had come from the petite,
disheveled figure
who
shoved her way free of the
clansmen before Ronan could reply. Dressed in a leather jerkin, shirt and
trousers, her lush curls flying, she rushed past him and sank to her knees
beside the bed.

"When?"

Ronan’s gaze lifted from the young woman’s curious
clothing to her exquisite profile which was limned by candlelight. A smooth
forehead, graceful nose and cheekbones, delicately curved lips. Triona O’Toole
was no poxed
hound, that
much was clear.

"A few moments ago."

Expecting an immediate womanly flood of tears, Ronan
couldn’t have been more surprised when she rose, her small hands clenched at
her sides.

"I will avenge you, Father. I swear it! I’ll not
rest until the Normans who attacked you feel the sting of my arrows!"

And you will not cry, Triona told herself fiercely
despite the heartrending grief twisting inside her. Not now. Not until she was
alone . . . and not until
he
had left
Imaal.

She spun, her contemptuous gaze sweeping from head to
foot the grimly silent man who towered above her. Considering she had last seen
him as a child, it was amazing to her that he could look even taller than she
remembered, his shoulders broader, his chest wider, an air of command emanating
from him even as he was standing still, damn him. Boldly she met his eyes.

"Black hair, black clothes, black cloak. You look
like Satan himself come to call! How dare you darken my father’s last moments,
O’Byrne!
"

Ronan saw unshed tears glistening in her eyes, the
trembling of her chin, and told himself to be patient. She had just lost her
father after all. Yet it was apparent from her hostility toward him that Fineen
had spoken of Ronan none too kindly over the years, Triona adopting her father’s
view. No doubt she, too, blamed him for Conor’s death.

"So you remember me," Ronan said evenly,
appraising again her unmaidenlike garb. His gaze lingered upon the snug fit of
her trousers to shapely hips and thighs . . . until he realized he was staring.
A damned dangerous combination, was men’s clothing on a female form, and one he
intended to remedy, Ronan decided, looking up to find Triona scowling at him. "You’ve
changed altogether. You were just a little girl—"

"Spare me your recollections, Ronan O’Byrne. You
will leave Imaal at once. You’re not welcome here. Go back to Glenmalure where
you belong!"