Wild Angel (11 page)

Had she another ally among the O’Byrnes? Triona
wondered, looking at Maire with surprise. But before she had a chance to reply,
Maire added softly, "I’m glad to see that you’re walking more ably in your
gown, too."

"I’ve been practicing," Triona murmured, her
lie making her feel uncomfortable. Her face growing warm, she looked out the
window, cursing again her unintentionally thoughtless stunt.

"Triona."

She started, meeting Maire’s eyes.

"You don’t have to say you like the gowns for my
sake. I should have known better than to push them upon you." Another
smile curved Maire’s pale lips. "Actually, the few times I’ve tried to use
that crutch over there, my gown has proved a nuisance. Mayhap I should try a
pair of trousers."

"Oh, Ronan would love that," Triona muttered
to herself, relieved that Maire seemed to understand about the gowns.

Maire laughed delicately. "I imagine that my
wearing trousers
would
make Ronan a
bit unhappy."

"A bit?" Triona let out a snort at the
thought of Ronan’s face. "He would think I had tainted you for sure. He
didn’t even want me to talk to you at supper, and if he knew now that we were
sitting here together—"

"You must come to see me whenever you wish,"
Maire broke in, her lovely features grown sober. "Ronan has always been
very protective, mayhap more than he . . ." She didn’t finish, uttering a
soft sigh as she looked down at the embroidery in her lap. Only after a long
moment did she glance up again, her gray eyes wistful. "It must be a
wonderful thing to be able to wed. You’re so fortunate, Triona."

Triona immediately bristled, not so much at Maire but
the unpleasant topic she’d raised. "Fortunate? To have your brother
threatening to force some man upon me?"

"Aye, that isn’t right, but at least you’re so
healthy and whole no man would ever refuse you." Then, shaking her head as
if angry with herself, Maire’s tone gentled. "Ah, it’s better this way. It
wouldn’t be fair to burden a man with an invalid, and surely no man would ever
want one for a wife . . ."

For a moment Triona felt as if she’d been forgotten,
Maire was so lost in her thoughts. But it gave her a chance to think, too,
astonished as she was by what Maire had revealed. They couldn’t be more
different, Maire appearing more the mythic Lady Emer than any woman Triona had
known, generous, sweet-natured, self-denying, and surrounded by beautiful
things that held little interest for Triona. Yet they were uncannily alike,
too. Both of them wishing for acceptance . . . for the world to be different.

Pity washed over Triona, but she knew that wasn’t what
Maire needed. "You say you’ve tried that crutch?" she asked, glancing
at the polished piece of hazelwood resting against the wall.

Maire looked up as if startled. "Aye, now and
again this past year. I was feeling a bit stronger, and I thought mayhap it
might help my legs so Ronan agreed to have it made for me. But he had me swear
I’d never attempt to use it alone, fearing I’d fall and hurt myself. Ita
usually helps me, but never for as long as I’d like."

Aye, her wary
Ita
probably
feared she’d hurt herself, Triona thought, rising to fetch the crutch. No doubt
Maire had received little encouragement from all of her well-intentioned
protectors, their concern making them believe Maire’s efforts could only make
her worse. Thus no horseback rides, little fresh air from the looks of her, and
few words to inspire her. Triona could just imagine the sheltered life she’d
lived, poor girl, with that stern-faced Ronan in charge.

"Well, Maire O’Byrne, Ita isn’t here, so it’s my
turn to help." Triona held out the crutch. "And we’ll go for as long
as you want."

Maire stared at her, clearly stunned. "Truly?"

Triona nodded. "I’m not as big as
Ita
but I can support you well enough, and besides, you look
to weigh a good bit less than me. Oh aye, and while I’m asking, have you ever
ridden a horse?"

Maire shook her head, her eyes growing wider. "Ronan’s
never allowed me to."

"The tyrant," Triona muttered with a frown.

"Oh, no, it was only because he feared—"

"I know. That you might be hurt. But I’m not
afraid because I think walking and riding is exactly what you long to be doing,
not sitting here all alone." As tears glistened in Maire’s eyes, Triona
felt something swimming in her own as she bent down to help Maire to rise. "Come
on, now. We’ll start slow, and work at it every day if we can. The riding might
have to wait until we can show Ronan you’re making some progress—aye, and what
we’re doing will have to be a secret."

"Our secret," Maire murmured, gritting her
teeth as she stood shakily.

Chapter 9

IT WAS LATE afternoon when Ronan entered the stable,
his instincts telling him where Triona might be found. But he didn’t see her
readily, at least not until he heard spirited humming—a hunting tune—coming
from a middle stall. And then he spied only the top of her head and the
vigorous stroke of her arm above the wooden siding as she brushed her tall
stallion Laeg’s back.

"I could swear that’s not the same voice I heard
the other night," he said dryly, not surprised when the singing stopped.
He heard a low curse,
then
Triona was peering at him
over the stall, clearly standing on tiptoes.

"That’s because it always sounds better when it’s
not so loud."

"Ah, I see."

"Truly! If you’d like I could show you the
difference—"

"Spare my ears, Triona." At once he saw her
eyes narrow, and he realized he had probably spoken too sternly. Reminding
himself of his new mission, Ronan moved to the stall entrance, adding in a more
pleasant tone, "Why don’t you come out? Laeg looks well groomed enough for
three horses."

He fell silent, presented for the second time that day
with the enticing sight of Triona’s bare legs as she obligingly left the
stall—her apricot-colored gown tucked up between her thighs like trousers.

"I hope you don’t mind, but it was impossible for
me to move about until I raised the skirt."

Pleased as much by her handiwork as with the tightening
of Ronan’s jaw, Triona hooked her thumbs on the belt she’d fashioned from rope
to hold everything up. She’d been imagining this moment, ever since she’d come
to the stable. She could see that Ronan was trying to hold onto his patience,
and she hoped she didn’t appear too smug. Aye, spiting him was going to be such
fun!

"I do mind, but I suppose I can see the purpose in
it," came his careful answer, his voice not quite as agreeable as a moment
before.

"Well, you can see I’m still wearing a gown, and
that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?"

He nodded, his gaze sweeping over her again. Except
this time his appraisal took longer, much longer, until Triona began to grow
uncomfortable. His expression had changed, too, from displeasure to something .
. . something else. From the way he was staring at her, one would think he’d
never seen a woman’s legs before!

"Is it warts you’re searching for, O’Byrne? If so,
I don’t have any, or hairy moles, or any blemish for that matter!"

"Actually" —his slate gray eyes lifted to
hers— "I was going to say your legs are very lovely."

She gaped at him, completely taken by surprise. "You—you
were?"

"Aye. Slim and lithe . . .

"Lithe?" Triona’s heart began to pound, Ronan’s
gaze wandering down her thighs again as if to emphasize his every word.

"Very lithe. And sleek. Like the silk of your
gown, I would imagine, soft to the touch—"

"Touch?" The spell shattered, Triona took a
stumbling step backward, her eyes narrowing at Ronan. "Don’t you even dare
think of touching me,
O’Byrne!
Don’t you even
dare!
"

"I thought no such thing," Ronan lied, trying
to tell that to the heat blazing in his loins. His sudden decision to test
Niall’s advice had succeeded more than he could have imagined possible,
painfully so for him. As for Triona, he’d swear she had been no more thinking
of defying him a moment ago than running away. By God, had no man ever
complimented her before? From the startled look she’d given him, he doubted any
had.

"If anyone touches you, Triona, it will be your
husband," he continued as she began to wrench the skirt from the
improvised belt at her waist, appearing almost frantic to cover herself. "Yet
you can hardly blame me if I commented on what you so freely displayed."

"I wasn’t displaying anything!" Triona’s
temper flared as hot as her face. "Least of all to you, Ronan O’Byrne!"
Yanking her wrinkled gown over her legs, she straightened to find that same
unsettling glint of amusement in his eyes. "If you’ve found something
funny in this—this latest outrage, I can tell you that I have not!"

"I’m only wondering how you’re going to mount your
horse. It might have been easier before . . ." Glancing at the rope belt
she’d flung atop a pile of hay, he shrugged. "I’m sure you’ll manage. I
came here to ask if you might like to join me on a ride—’

"A ride?" Instantly, Triona knew she had
found the perfect way to retaliate. "Across the glen?"

"If you wish."

Still unused to his acquiescence, Triona turned her
back on him and seized Laeg’s bridle from a peg. "You’re damned right I’ll
manage. Watch me."

He was watching her, too. She could feel it, and she
hoped he couldn’t see that her fingers were trembling. They hadn’t stopped
since he’d said her legs were . . . Oh, begorra, why was she wasting time
thinking about it?

"I could help you with that bit."

"I don’t need your help," she snapped,
although Laeg didn’t seem to agree. The stallion was bobbing his finely
sculpted head as if to tell her to mind what she was doing. "Easy, Laeg, I’ll
get it right," she assured him as she settled the bit in his mouth and
then backed him from the stall.

"We’ve some sidesaddles the other women use."

"Ha! That’s the last thing I need," Triona
scoffed. "Just like you, O’Byrne, and most Irishmen worthy of the name, I’ve
never used a saddle in my life—
any
kind of saddle." She grabbed onto Laeg’s thick black mane and pulled
herself onto his back. Except then she was stuck, like a plank of wood across
his back, unable to sit astride him. She swore she would burn the gown to
cinders as soon as she had the chance. "Mayhap if we rode together, I
could hold—"

"You’ve your own blessed horse to ride!" she
cut in, knowing she must look awkward as she balanced precariously on one hip
and then flopped over, raising herself to a sitting position. A position that
to her fury had both her legs dangling over one side, something she hadn’t had
to endure since childhood.

"Well done."

She turned to find Ronan already astride his huge black
stallion, the muscular animal snorting belligerently at Laeg as if offering a
challenge, its glossy neck arched and its nostrils flared. But she and Laeg
could never hope to win any race with her barely able to keep from sliding off .
. .

That thought decided the matter. Her scowl daring Ronan
to say a word, Triona pulled up her gown as modestly as possible and threw her
bare leg over Laeg’s neck. With a toss of her head, she was out the stable door
and heading to the gates, not caring in the least if Ronan was following her.

He was, only a few paces separating them.

"Easy, man," he told himself, tempted to haul
her back to the stable and command she ride in a more maidenlike fashion. He
didn’t appreciate the stares she was drawing, her creamy thighs hugging her
mount a sight to leave any man agog. But at least she was still wearing a gown.
One concession might soon lead to others if he managed to keep his mission in
mind.

"What’s wrong with your men, O’Byrne? Why won’t
they open the gates?" she demanded as he drew alongside her. "Surely
they can see that I’m not trying to ride out alone."

"Too busy gawking," Ronan muttered to
himself, throwing a dark look at the guards manning the gates.

Immediately the way was opened, Ronan not surprised
when the same thing happened at the two outer gates. But the last set had no
more than swung open when Triona kicked her steed into a full gallop. Ronan
found himself pelted with clods of earth as she flew ahead of him.

"Come on, Laeg! Let’s show Black O’Byrne what it
means to ride!"

Her mood lightened by the wind whipping at her hair,
Triona waved her arm and whooped at the top of her lungs. The sheep grazing at
the bottom of the hill scattered, bawling, and the clatter of the bells around
their necks filled the air. She glanced over her shoulder to see that she held
a good lead over Ronan though his stallion was lunging hard.

"Faster, Laeg!" she cried, hoping Ronan was
angry, no, furious. As furious as his brazen compliments had made her. How dare
he comment upon her appearance as if he had the right!

She raced on past rough pasture and ever-thickening
forest that stretched far up the surrounding
mountainsides,
her head bent low against Laeg’s powerful neck as the stallion thundered
beneath her. Whenever she ventured a quick glance behind her, Ronan remained a
good twenty lengths away, making her triumphant smile stretch all the wider.

She had shown him! He wouldn’t dare to ask her to ride
with him again out of sheer embarrassment!

"Have you had enough?"

Startled that she could have heard Ronan calling to her
so clearly, she shot a look over her shoulder to find that her lead had shrunk
to less than five lengths.

"I said, have you had—"

"I heard you!" she shouted back to him,
urging Laeg with a firm squeeze of her knees to go faster. "You should be
the one asking yourself if you’ve had enough! Are you blind, O’Byrne? I’ve been
holding the lead since—"