L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep Page 16

  He stepped away, took up the narrow bar he’d used to pry off the stones and wedged it into the crack between the door and the frame. “You’d better stay back until I get this open.”

  She nodded and moved off to the side. She’d drawn her knife, though how she thought to use it, he couldn’t guess.

  He gave the bar a hard shove and felt the door break free. Plaster and splinters of wood filled the area, along with a cloud of dust that blinded him. He felt a large body brush past him from beyond the door. Still unable to see, he drew his dagger and spun around just as Moira screamed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Connor!” Moira shouted.

  A man cried out in pain, then let loose a frantic rush of Gaelic, too fast for Connor to understand.

  Whatever he’d said didn’t matter, anyway—not when Moira might be in danger. Connor swiped his sleeve across his eyes and tugged his dagger from his boot as he lunged toward them.

  “Domnal O’Neill,” Moira exclaimed. “By the saints, what are you doing here?”

  Connor halted, blinking rapidly until he could see through the thinning haze of dust. Another O’Neill? All he could tell through the murk was that the man looked nigh as large as Aidan.

  Connor’s vision cleared. O’Neill stepped away from Moira and held out his left hand to her, palm up. “Look at this,” he whined. “You cut me, Moira.”

  “Moira, are you all right?”

  “Aye,” she said, sounding vexed. “Ignore him, milord.”

  She appeared unharmed, so Connor glanced over and peered through the doorway. Naught but a cloud of dust. O’Neill was alone. Besides, would the man be sniveling to his sister if he’d come with a war party? Connor gave a grunt of disgust at the idea. Doubtful. Nonetheless, he’d best be cautious. He shoved closed what was left of the door and braced the iron bar against it.

  Turning to them, he saw that Moira had slouched down and now sat on the filthy floor, her hands cupped protectively over her rounded belly. “You said he didn’t harm you,” he growled. He grabbed O’Neill by the tunic, whirled him away from his sister and held him pinned to the wall. Wisely, the young man clamped his mouth shut and didn’t move.

  She slowly stood, giving a muffled groan. “Moira?” Connor held her brother to the wall, but focused his attention upon her.

  “I’m fine, Connor, truly—no thanks to Domnal,” she added with disgust. She brushed at the coating of gray dust covering her from head to toe, to no avail. Pulling off her veil, she used the clean side to wipe off her face, then sneezed. “′Tis a miracle he didn’t startle me into giving birth right here.”

  Connor tightened his grip and pressed O’Neill more firmly against the stone wall. “Did you come alone?”

  “Aye, milord.” O’Neill glanced over at his sister. “I’m sorry I frightened you, Moira. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t realize ′twas so close in here.”

  Connor eased his hold and allowed O’Neill to slump down onto his feet. “Do you swear you’ve no one with you?”

  The youth—for Connor could see that O’Neill couldn’t be more than sixteen—met his gaze without hesitation. “On our mother’s grave, milord,” he murmured.

  “Moira?” Connor asked. “Should I trust him?”

  She took a step closer to her brother. “Aye.” To Connor’s surprise, she reached down, unhooked the sword from her brother’s belt and held it out for Connor to take. Even more startling to him, O’Neill made no protest, his dirt-smeared face merely twisting into a resigned expression. “But regardless of his honesty or lack of it, I suggest we leave here.”

  Connor nodded. He’d just as soon get Moira out of the dust and dirt; it couldn’t be good for her or the child. He needed to send someone down to guard the doorway, as well. “You’ve the right of it,” he told her, tucking her brother’s sword beneath his arm and reaching over to claim his knife, too. He motioned for Moira to take the lantern and go ahead, before nudging O’Neill into motion. “I’ll send Will and Sir Ivor down.”

  O’Neill paused and turned to him. “You should close it up, milord,” he said urgently. “If Hugh and Aidan come back . . . ”

  “You can tell me more once we’re out of here,” Connor said quietly. “For now, I want your sister someplace safe.”

  “′Tis all I want as well, milord.” He met Connor’s gaze, his eyes intense. “Though I don’t know if such a place exists.”

  Once they’d left the undercroft, Moira absently trudged along in Connor’s wake as he sent laborers to block up the passageway, with Sir Will and Sir Ivor to guard the site.

  She glanced at her brother yet again, her mind awhirl with reasons why Domnal might have been waiting on the other side of that door. Although impatient to discover his intent, she also felt a definite uncertainty. Whatever brought Domnal to Gerald’s Keep, it couldn’t be good.

  And she didn’t know how much more bad news she could bear.

  Although Connor had released his grip on Domnal before they left the cellar, her brother stayed close without any urging that she could see—a definite change from the defiant youth he’d been the last time they’d met. However, the more she observed Domnal, the more she became convinced he was frightened. Terrified, in fact. Though terrified of what, she hadn’t any idea.

  The three of them were so filthy—covered in dirt and gray dust—that ′twas almost funny. To her surprise, however, no one laughed, or said a word, as they passed through the bailey and hall, though she heard a wave of muffled laughter following in their wake. Perhaps ′twas Connor’s presence, or his stern expression, that accounted for it.

  He appeared oblivious to it all, his attention clearly focused elsewhere. No doubt upon what to do next, or what he might learn from Domnal.

  She hoped he didn’t expect much from her brother, however. Aidan and Finan had never bothered to include the youngest O’Neill in any of their plans, beyond using him and his astounding prowess at arms when it suited their purpose to do so.

  Much as they’d used her for their own gain, she realized. Mayhap ′twas time for her to view Domnal in a different light.

  Connor sent the lad into the solar ahead of them, then paused, turning to lean back against the doorframe. “I never thought to ask, Moira—are you sure you want us entering your rooms in this condition?” He glanced down at his filthy clothing and her own, his mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Not that you look much better,” he added, the glint of humor in his dark eyes tempering his words.

  The answering spark of amusement that coursed through her slashed through the dismal murk clouding her mind and kindled a spark of hope within her. Connor was here—he would help her, share whatever news Domnal brought, good or bad. She felt her tension ease. “This is one of the more private places for us to talk to him, to question him.” She reached past Connor and pushed the door wide, flashing him a teasing smile. “Of course, you realize you’ll have to sit on the floor.”

  “Only if you do,” he murmured, ushering her into the room.

  Domnal stood at the hearth, gazing down at the dying fire. To Moira’s newly awakened notice, he looked filthy, cold—and more frightened than when they’d left the undercroft. Good. Perhaps if they gave his apprehension a bit longer to grow, he might be more truthful and forthright with them.

  “Would you stir up the fire?” she asked Connor. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He, too, cast a measuring look Domnal’s way before giving her a slight nod.

  She crossed the solar and entered her room, calling for Brigit as she closed the door.

  The maid, dozing in a chair by the fire, started. “Beg pardon, milady,” she said, then glanced up and gasped. “Lady Moira!” She lurched to her feet and hurried to her side. “Sit down—nay, you’d better lie down—at once,” she scolded. Before Moira could stop her, Brigit took her by the arm and led her toward the bed. “Look at you! You’re filthy, milady. What happened to you?” she asked, her worried gaze sweeping over Moira from head to toe. “Are you all right?”
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  Moira gently freed herself and halted before the maid could nudge her down onto the mattress. “I’m fine, Brigit,” she reassured her. She took Brigit’s work-worn hand in hers and urged her to sit on the edge of the bed. “There’s no need to ruin the bedcovers with all this dirt. I’ll simply wash my face and hands and go back to the solar. Lord Connor is there with Domnal—”

  “Domnal?” Brigit jumped to her feet. “Your brother?”

  Moira picked up the pitcher from the table and poured water into the basin. “Aye, my brother.” She wet a cloth and wiped her face with it, then rinsed her hands.

  “What is he doing here?” Brigit took the grubby rag from her and handed her a towel.

  “I don’t know.” She dried her face and shook out the towel, frowning at the smudged linen. She was still dirty, but couldn’t take time to do more about it. “We found him in the passageway off the undercroft of the keep.”

  “Do you think your brother has sent him to spy?” The old woman’s face went pale, and her voice rose with every word.

  “Hush,” Moira warned. “Do you want him to hear you?”

  “If he didn’t come in through the front gate,” she whispered, “they’re bound to have sent him to do you harm. What if they sent him to take the babe?”

  “Nay, I cannot believe that of him.” She laid a hand on Brigit’s arm to calm her, casting a glance toward the closed door. “I don’t know why he’s come—or how he got here, truth to tell. And the longer I linger in here, the less chance I have to find out.” She smoothed her loosened hair back from her face. “Send Padrig for food, drink and some water for the men to wash. I’ve let Domnal stew long enough.”

  As soon as the door closed behind Moira, Connor went to the hearth and knelt to build up the fire, taking advantage of the lad’s proximity to observe him.

  Now that he saw Domnal O’Neill in the clear light of day, he couldn’t mistake his resemblance to Moira. Unlike Aidan, Domnal had bright blue eyes and straight dark hair, and despite the lad’s scraggly attempt at a beard, the similarity of their features showed through.

  Though Connor had never seen that look of fear on Moira’s face, despite the gravity of her circumstances.

  He knew why she’d retreated to her chamber—one reason, at any rate, and one he agreed with. She wanted to build Domnal’s fear. Considering how her brothers had treated her, Connor wouldn’t have blamed her if she drew out Domnal’s torment in retribution for past hurts, but he doubted that was her intent. More likely she hoped to frighten her brother into telling them everything he knew.

  Raised voices sounded from Moira’s chamber, though he couldn’t distinguish the words. Still, ′twas enough to make Domnal jump, and his face—where he’d wiped away some of the dust—grew pale. “How fares my sister, milord? Is she well?” His voice held concern. Was it sincere, or naught but a ploy?

  Either way, Connor’s answer would be the same. The lad should be made aware of what effect her family’s schemes had on her. “The babe tires her, but ′tis the press of worry over what the MacCarthys—and her brothers—might do,” he added with a pointed look, “that weighs heaviest upon her.”

  Domnal turned away. Had his words sunk in? Connor wondered. He hoped they had. Kneeling on the raised hearth, he waited until the new layer of peat he’d laid upon the embers caught fire. He tried to mute the curiosity nagging at him, but ′twas futile; he wanted—nay, needed—to know what brought Domnal O’Neill to Gerald’s Keep in such secrecy.

  Evidently he wasn’t the only impatient one; Domnal paced the length of the room, stopping near the window and reaching to open the shutters.

  “Get away from there,” Connor said, keeping his voice stern. He brushed off his hands and stood.

  Domnal spun and faced him, an expression of guilt written plainly on his face. “Milord?”

  What had he been about to do? Did he think to send a signal, or to spy out the lay of the land from this lofty perch? Keeping the lad within sight, Connor dragged a stool away from the table and thumped it down. “Sit.”

  Domnal obeyed the terse command, slouching onto the seat and staring at the scar on Connor’s face. “Were you wounded in battle, milord?” he asked, eagerness in his tone and curiosity replacing guilt on his face.

  “Nay,” Connor replied. He turned away and moved closer to Moira’s door. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall. What was keeping her? He listened carefully, but heard no sounds at all coming from the other room.

  He glanced at Domnal again and suppressed a groan. He’d thought the chill of his answer would have quelled the lad’s interest in the mark, but it didn’t appear to have done so.

  “′Tis a nasty scar, milord,” Domnal said, his enthusiasm undimmed. “What caused it?”

  ′Twas clear he’d have no peace till he gave an answer. Perhaps the truth would silence Domnal’s prying before it went any further. Besides, Connor had no patience left to hide who he’d been—the man he’d become had more courage than to hide behind half-truths any longer.

  He pushed away from the wall and came to stand by the window, nudging aside the shutters to let the sunlight pour over him—over his face when he turned toward Domnal. “My father cut me with a dagger. He believed me a coward, and sneered at my feeble attempt to protect my mother from him. He’d the right of it, for I didn’t even know how to defend myself from his blade.”

  The door to Moira’s bedchamber slammed shut. His heart thundering in his chest, Connor shifted his gaze from the stunned lad to the woman hurrying to his side. “By the Virgin,” Moira gasped. Her hand shook as she reached up and traced the slash across his cheek, her touch a balm that soothed his pride even as it spurred his pulse. Settling her hand on his shoulder, she leaned close. “Your back, as well?” she murmured, too low for Domnal to hear.

  “Aye.” Connor met her gaze and gave a silent sigh of relief. While he saw the sympathy he’d expected in her eyes, he also saw more. Pride, support …

  Was it possible he could reveal the details of his past to her freely, without worrying that she’d view him as weak? He wanted her to know that he would always do his best to protect her.

  She cupped his cheek with her palm and smiled. “Your valor astounds me, Connor. You are a very brave man.”

  Her words astounded him—humbled him, made him feel the most courageous of men. “I thank you, milady,” he said for her ears alone. Taking her hand in his, he pressed a kiss upon it before gently turning her to face her brother.

  The lad gazed at him in awe, for some reason—not the reaction Connor had intended, yet it couldn’t hurt in these circumstances. Burying deep his pleasure at Moira’s response—till he’d time to consider it at his leisure—he settled his expression. “Now then, Domnal O’Neill—are you ready to tell us what you were doing hiding behind that door?”

  The lad looked from Connor to Moira and back again, uncertainty apparent in his demeanor, before looking down at the table in silence. Perhaps he didn’t know what to say … Or perhaps he didn’t have any information to share, though Connor refused to believe that could be the case. O’Neill hadn’t stumbled upon that passageway by accident.

  Connor led Moira to the table and pulled out a chair for her, then drew up a stool for himself once he’d seated her. She seemed hesitant in her brother’s presence. Could it be that she couldn’t decide if she should trust him? The look in her eyes when she gazed at Domnal appeared quite different from her reaction to Aidan. Connor thought he saw affection mixed with the indecision.

  Perhaps once they discovered Domnal’s purpose for coming here, she’d know how to respond.

  Connor rested his elbows on the table and leaned toward O’Neill. “I suggest you tell us something, lad, else I’ll be forced to lock you up in the guardroom like I did your brother. Unlike Aidan, however, I’ll not set you free come the morning.”

  “You locked up Aidan?” Domnal asked, eyes round and amazement in his voice.

 
; “I did.”

  The hint of a smile played around the lad’s mouth and brightened his eyes. “He never said—”

  “You couldn’t expect Aidan to admit it,” Moira interjected. “Our brother is naught but a bladder full of hot air, ready to burst forth with his own importance given the slightest opportunity.”

  Connor bit back a laugh, for she’d summed up Aidan exactly.

  Domnal didn’t bother to hide his amusement, chuckling merrily and slapping his hand on the table. “Oh, aye—when he returned from here a few days past, he was fit to explode.” Once again he looked from one of them to the other, his gaze settling upon Connor this time. “You’re nothing like he described you to Hugh and the others, milord. Not a bit.” He shifted in his seat and his grin widened. “He said you were old and feeble, and wrapped tight about my sister’s—” Connor caught his eye and he broke off, coughing. “Her thumb, milord.”

  “Did he indeed?” Anger filled Moira’s voice, fired her eyes till they glowed a brilliant blue. “And what did Hugh have to say about that?”

  Domnal glanced at his sister, then looked away. “I’d rather not say, Moira. It’s not true, and it doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, his face flushed red.

  Taking pity on the lad—and Moira, who looked fit to explode—Connor reached out and took her hand, giving it a squeeze, and sought to turn the conversation to a topic more important to them than Aidan’s and Hugh’s lies and insults. “Tell me, lad—why are you here?”

  Domnal stared at them, so long that Connor imagined he could see the wheels turning in the lad’s head, see him weighing what to say.

  “You can tell Lord Connor, Domnal—tell him the truth,” Moira said. “Say whatever you want. There’s no way our brothers or the MacCarthys will know what you’ve told us. They need never know you were here, if you don’t want them to.” She slipped her hand free of Connor’s grasp, reached out and took her brother’s hands in hers. “You’re safe here, Domnal, for as long as you wish to stay.”