Wild Roses (3 page)

"God's breath, does she live?"

"Barely, I'd wager, after that blow. Hit the
branch square on, she did, foolish little bitch."

"Ah, Henry, you're only grousing because you'll
have to wait now to spread her legs. A pretty bit, too, for an Irish wench,
though too thin for my taste."

"Anything would be too thin compared to the
big-breasted sows you take to your bed, man! Gather her up and let's get back
to the others. Lady Adele should be well pleased with today's sport, wouldn't
you say?"

Coarse male
laughter ringing
deafeningly in her ears, Maire groaned as she felt herself being lifted, the
pain in her head grown so acute she was aware of little else. Nor did she think
to fight her
captor,
her limbs useless and limp, the
world become no more than a hazy blur. Within what seemed an instant, the
shadow of trees and leaves was
gone,
only open sky
above her, and more blinding sun.

"You ran her down! Delightful!" came a
feminine voice. A cool palm slipped across the left side of her head, which
throbbed and thundered. "A terrible lump, though, big as a chestnut. Did you
strike her, FitzHugh?"

"Ha! A branch felling her was hardly the surrender
I had envisioned—"

"And you'll leave her be, too, Henry, if she's to
recover. Since Gwyneth died aboard ship, you know I need another maid. This
wench will do nicely . . . an Irish savage to amuse me. Then again, she might
amuse my dear brother, too. She's surely lovely enough. And what better way to
show the man I want only the best for him, yes? A humble gift to herald my
surprise visit!"

Gay laughter piercing her skull, Maire blinked in agony
as she was jostled once more, nearly retching when she was flopped onto her
stomach over a saddle. But she did vomit when she spied the bloody carnage upon
the ground, Fiach O'Byrne's severed head staring up at her with sightless eyes.

"God's nightgown, my lady, now I'll stink like
Irish puke!"

It was the last thing Maire heard as numbing darkness
claimed her, mercifully silencing the uproarious laughter that rang all around.

***

"What do you
mean,
visitors
?" As Duncan dismounted
heavily, his gaze grim as he surveyed the unexpected commotion in the torchlit
bailey, his balding steward Faustis wrung his hands.

"Important visitors, my lord! They're in the great
hall—have been for an hour. And they've already eaten everything the cooks
prepared, a full carcass of salted beef, half a pig, eight legs of mutton, and
still they clamor for more!"

Duncan wasn't
surprised,
one
dark glance at the horses filling the stable—leaving barely room for those of
his own men—telling him the entourage that had descended upon his household was
indeed large. Destriers, pack animals, a magnificent dappled gray gelding that
any man would consider a prize, though a sidesaddle of finely polished leather
was propped upon a nearby stall—

"Sidesaddle . . ." Intuition gripping his
gut, Duncan looked back at Faustis to find the squat little man counting aloud
on his plump fingers and shaking his head.

"And twelve casks of wine, my lord, twelve in an
hour! Heaven help us, we'll be drained dry at this rate—"

"Faustis, God's teeth, enough!
Who
are my damned visitors?"

His outburst clearly rattling the man, Duncan almost
regretted his harsh tone when sweat broke out upon Faustis's jutting brow.

"She said . . . I-I mean, they said I mustn't tell
you, my lord. It's a surprise."

"A surprise."

"Y-yes, my lord."

For a moment Duncan couldn't say another word for the
tightness in his jaw, only Gerard coming up beside him and casting him a
quizzical look, prodding him once more to speak to Faustis. "So whoever is
in the hall eating my food and drinking my wine—
"

"Ten knights, my lord, twenty-six men-at-arms,
maidservants,
a
band of minstrels—"

"Ah, so my surprise visitors brought their own
players. Jugglers? Acrobats?"

When Faustis gave a weak nod, stammering something
about a dwarf court jester, too, Duncan had heard enough. Swearing under his
breath, he didn't wait for Gerard or his other knights but strode across the
castle courtyard, his bone weariness forgotten, the marauding Irish rebels he
and his men had chased half the length of Meath pushed from his mind as well,
at least for now. He swept off his mailed coif, the drunken carnival in the
great hall something he was compelled at once to see.

God's teeth, were some days fashioned simply to plague him?
First word had come that a farming settlement had been attacked, may Walter de
Lacy's men rot in hell. He imagined the tenants who worked those fields—and the
poor woman who'd lost her daughter—had exhausted themselves abusing the three
Norman corpses he'd left hanging from that tree. Then a rider from his
westernmost castle had brought news of Irish rebels stealing cattle, and now
surprise visitors . . .

Duncan scowled to himself as the revelry grew louder
and more boisterous; a stranger to Longford Castle would have no difficulty
finding the great hall for the noise. And considering it was so late, dusk long
hours ago, no wonder the servants had a haggard look about them, especially the
ones bearing more steaming platters of food from the kitchen.

But what caught his eye were the two Irish serving
wenches huddled near the great arched entrance to the hall, one of them clearly
much distressed and weeping. Duncan came up so suddenly behind them that both
young women gasped and spun around, their faces stunned and pale in the
torchlight.

"Are you ill?" he demanded, cursing the need
to speak so loudly for the raucous laughter echoing from the hall when one
serving wench, a comely redhead, again burst into tears. Her plump companion
hastily threw her arm around the smaller woman's shoulders, her voice shaky yet
indignant.

"Not ill, lord. The wee
thing's
terrified, she is. One of your guests, forgive me for speaking so boldly, has
demanded she come to his bed this night! And she's a new bride, a fine
husband—one of your own blacksmiths, lord, waiting for her at home in the
village—"

"Go to your husband, then. Now."

The young woman didn't hesitate, murmuring
a hoarse
thanks as she fled past Duncan and disappeared down
the steps to the kitchen. The other wench picked up an empty wine jug and made
to leave too, but not before casting Duncan a weary yet grateful smile. Yet he
scarcely noticed it, his jaw clenched tight as he entered the hall.

"Duncan!"

The beautiful blond woman hastening from the high table
in a flutter of sapphire silk made his gut knot all the harder, his suspicion
proving correct. As the carousing continued around him unabated, minstrels
playing their lutes feverishly, servants scurrying to keep cups and trenchers
full while drunken knights grabbed and pawed at any hapless female and kicked
at the hunting dogs fighting for scraps, Duncan found himself enveloped in a
perfumed embrace of jasmine and musk.

"Oh, Duncan, how delightful! I was beginning to
wonder if you'd ever arrive!"

She immediately stepped back smiling to sweep her gaze
over him from head to toe, which allowed Duncan to assess his half sister as
well. Older than him by eight years, Adele de Londres nonetheless carried her
thirty-six winters well, bearing the face and form of a woman a decade younger.
She was lovely. There was no denying it. Perhaps one of the fairest women in
Britain. But what the devil was she doing in Ireland?

"You haven't changed at all in two years, Duncan.
Still as handsome as ever, no—more so! But I suppose power does that to a man,
yes?"

Tensing at the sudden brittle glint in her blue eyes,
Duncan gave a slight nod. "I've done well, thanks to King John—"

"
Well?
One of the largest estates in Meath, three castles, countless manors? Why, you
put the rest of the family to shame, dear brother. Who would have ever
thought—ah, but I always knew you were destined for great things, glorious
things! And when I heard just how well you were doing, I decided to come and
see for myself." Adele waved her hand with a flourish at the sumptuously
appointed great hall, her smile brilliant. "Truly, my lord, I haven't been
disappointed."

Duncan didn't reply, her words grating upon him as much
as her unexpected presence, bitter memories rushing to the fore.

Who would have
ever thought
. . . Yes, he could well imagine the profound delight his
three half brothers found in the prosperity he had finally attained after long,
loyal years of service to King John. He could almost hear them toasting him
now, no doubt wishing him an early grave like the one that had claimed his
Scots mother—

"Oh, Duncan, must you scowl so? I see that, too,
hasn't changed. And I won't stand for it, not tonight, not after I've traveled
all this way to see you. Come and sit with me and tell me everything!"

Again the cloying smell of Adele's perfume assailed him
as she playfully looped her arm through his and urged him toward the high
table. But they hadn't gone far before she slowed her pace, glancing with
unabashed interest over her shoulder.

"One of your knights, brother?"

Following her gaze, Duncan felt his ill humor mounting
as Gerard de Barry entered the hall with several other men, his longtime
comrade in arms surveying the pandemonium with a mix of incredulity and dry
amusement.

"Yes, and a friend as well. I take it the
men" —Duncan looked with derision upon the drunken sots carousing at the
high table— "who accompany you serve your husband?"

"Alas, yes, they did, but I bear heavy news,
Duncan. My dear lord husband took ill and died during the winter. I'm a widow these
past five months."

And looking none the worse for her mourning, Duncan
thought darkly, if his stunning half sister had grieved at all.

Her marriage to Reginald de Londres had been no love
match, but she had rushed headlong into wedding the aging baron for the
comforts his wealth could bring her and doubtless the sexual freedom his
failing eyesight could afford her. It had been rumored long before Duncan had
come to Ireland that she had not once slept with the old fool, substituting her
maidservants instead while she enjoyed the attentions of many lovers. But if
she thought the man who was as close to him as a brother . . .

"No condolences, Duncan?"

Adele wasn't looking at him but at Gerard, her airy
comment clearly no more than an afterthought and not worthy of an answer as she
stared boldly at the handsome, russet-haired knight.

"Gerard de Barry has spoken for a maid, Adele. She
comes from Sussex to marry him in two months' time."

"Really? How wonderful for him."

"So he has often said. I've not seen a man more in
love."

She caught Duncan's gaze, and he swore he saw more than
a hint of feminine challenge in those disarming blue eyes before she gave him
an archly appraising look. "And what of you? Have you decided upon a wife
yet?"

His jaw tightening, Duncan shook his head, which made
her squeeze his arm in a poor attempt at sympathy.

"So I thought. You know, brother, mourning for a
woman long dead won't give you heirs to protect so grand an estate. How many
years has it been since Gisele . . . ?"

"Six." Glad that they had come to the high
table, Duncan disengaged his arm. "It's late, Adele, and the day has been
a taxing one—"

"Oh, Duncan, surely you're not thinking of
retiring so soon! And if I've distressed you—dear heavens, I promise I won't
mention her name again. Yet it only proves further that a wife is just what you
need, and I insist you allow me to help. If we can't find a young woman of
suitable rank among our kind here in Ireland, we could always send a messenger
to London and request that the Court arrange—"

"By the blood of God, woman, is that why you've
come to Meath?"

His roar silencing the bedlam in the hall, Duncan felt
all eyes suddenly upon him, minstrels, servants, and drunken knights alike
staring in surprise. But his own men didn't appear unduly concerned, Gerard
calmly sampling a cup of wine, while Adele seemed less than startled, though
two bright spots of color had touched her cheeks.

"Indeed, Duncan, I see your temper remains in high
form. Perhaps it would be best if we talked tomorrow . . . after you've had a
chance to rest. As you said, your day was a taxing one. I only hope you find
the night passes more pleasantly . . ."

She didn't say more, a cryptic smile upon her
generously curved lips, but turned to rejoin her knights at the high table. Yet
Duncan caught her arm, firmly drawing her back to face him.

"One thing, Adele. If your retainers are indeed
under your command, given Reginald's demise, then warn them well that I'll not
have my servingwomen suffer any abuse during your short visit. Have your own
maidservants see to their lusty amusements, not mine. Are we understood?"

Just as firmly easing her arm from his grasp, Adele
gave a regal nod. "Of course, brother. We are simply guests here, for
however long our stay. Not marauders. Oh, and as for your own lusty amusements,
I've met—now, what was her name? Ah, yes, Flanna. Pretty enough for an Irish
wench, though I've seen prettier. I enjoy some comfort that your longheld grief
hasn't kept you from taking women to your bed. Sleep soundly."

Again she gave a curious smile, but Duncan didn't tarry
to wonder at its meaning, her words alone a none-too-subtle taunt. That Adele
had met his mistress Flanna—damn his sister! She was already sniffing into
matters that were none of her concern, and after a stay of only a few hours'
time!