Claiming Her (Renegades & Outlaws) (45 page)

Bertrand grappled to catch hold of her again, but she ran forward, out of his grip, shouting in Irish, “You vowed you would live for me. You vowed it!”
 

Behind her, a chorus of startled shouts rose up.
“What the hell…”

“What did she say? Is that a spell?”

“Is she a witch?”
 

“Accursed Irish garble.”

Then, louder than the rest,
“Grab her, for God’s sake.”

She made it perhaps twenty yards before she was grabbed from behind and wrenched backward into a soldier’s chest. She hung there in his armored grip, hands tied behind her back, panting, watching Aodh come up as if nothing were amiss, as if he was meeting her for a picnic out on the green grass. The wind blew his hair, his eyes locked on hers, and the archers trained their arrows on his chest.

Even when they shouted at him to stop, he did not stop looking at her. He stopped walking, but he did not stop looking at her.

And when they ordered him to remove his sword and blades and pistols, he did not stop looking.

And when they ordered him to kneel down, and put his hands behind his head, he never looked away from her.
 

Tears, fat and hot, birthed themselves from her eyes, a nursery of tears. She wrestled uselessly against her captor’s hands as they bound him and lifted him to his feet.
 

“Aodh
, dúirt tú go mhairfeadh tú domsa,”
she called when he was brought near enough.
You said you would live for me.

“Shíl mé go raibh muid ag labhairt teoiriciúil,”
he replied.

“Theoretical?” she repeated, incredulous he could jest at such a perilous time. “
Níl, Aodh, tháinig na focail ó cheartlár mo chroí.”

“As did I,” he said, being dragged nearer, his eyes intent. “Every word.” He glanced up, then hollered loud enough to turn heads. “Ludthorpe!”

The commander was deep in discussion with his captains, and already, tents were being broken down, men were hurriedly grabbing bundles and tossing them onto wagons. They were eager to get the hell out of Ireland.
 

At Aodh’s call, Ludthorpe turned. “Welcome to my army, Con!” he called. “I am pleased you decided to visit.”

“It was the least I could do, since you had my wife.”

The commander smiled. “We’re going to take a little trip, back to England, you and I. The Irish press upon one so in Ireland.”

Aodh turned toward Katarina and saw her face now, closer up. He went still. “What happened to her?”

Ludthorpe sighed. “It was a misfortune. Of Bridge’s.”

A ripple moved through Aodh. “Release her. Now.”

It was obscene, almost, for Aodh to be giving commands, bound and manhandled as he was. But nevertheless, Ludthorpe turned to the soldier who held Katarina, but Bertrand stepped up, his face furious.
 

“No! She comes with us.
I
decide what to do with the spoils and the hostages,” he added hastily when Ludthorpe turned toward him, no doubt recalling the threat about being thrust outside the English lines for the native Irishry to feast upon. But in this, he was correct—being noble gave him certain precedence, for all that he was not in command, and Ludthorpe paused, then shrugged. It was a trifling matter. What did he care whether she stayed or went?
 

Bertrand looked triumphantly at Aodh. “You are fortunate I do not have you beheaded right here, Mac Con,” he snarled.
 

Aodh stared at him. The seconds ticked away and he never broke gaze. Bertrand’s face flushed a hot red, then he turned and snapped at a subordinate, cuffing him on the back of the head when the man did not hurry fast enough. Aodh turned back to Ludthorpe.
 

“May I have a moment with my wife?” he asked quietly.

Bertrand started to protest, but Ludthorpe cut him off. “Concern yourself with matters that matter, my lord,” he said tersely, and nodded to the soldier who held Katarina. “Let her speak to him. And for God’s sake, cut her cords.”
 

Bertrand seemed about to complain, but subsided when Ludthorpe turned a glare on him. “We bound the lady to bring in the Hound, Bridge,” he said coldly. “The Hound is here. We cut her cords. Have you a reasonable argument, speak.”
 

Bertrand scowled mutinously but subsided, stalking a few paces away to glower at them.
 

Katarina watched as Aodh was led up in front of her. The sky stretched out behind him in glorious, unending blue, Aodh was a dark stroke of masculinity in the foreground, clouding her vision. She could see nothing but him. The soldiers shoved him roughly to within a foot of her, and Aodh, mad thing, bent his head and kissed her.
 

Arms bound behind his back, hers just cut free, the rope ends still dangling, they kissed, a hot, passionate, diving kiss, more lunging than loving. Aodh gave his powerful torso a mighty shake and, for a moment, freed himself from his captors. At this much liberty, he took another step nearer and leaned over her, opened her mouth beneath his with hard, furious, delving strokes, the last kiss of a dying man.
 

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hung on, kissing him back.

People tried to drag them apart, but Katarina’s grip tightened. Bertrand called, “I warned you he was mischief!”
 

Aodh and Katarina kept kissing. Shouts ran rampant, the commander hollered for people to drag Bertrand out of there, soldiers grappled, knocking into each other, and in the midst of the mayhem, Aodh ripped his mouth from hers and whispered into her ear, “
Cruthaigh mé mearbhall, Katy
.”

She looked up into the eyes so close to hers. “A distraction?”

“Aye. Slip away
. Ní tusa ata ag iarraidh orthu. Mise amháin atá á lorg acu.”

“Oh, you are wrong. Bertrand wants me,” she whispered back in Irish. “He wants both of us.”

“That is why you must slip away. Nothing is served if we are both taken. Rardove needs you.”

“I—”

“Katy,” he said in a furious Irish whisper, “if I am not here, and you are not here, Bertrand will be.”

The breath caught in her throat. Then they peeled her arms from around his shoulders, forced her away, dragged her backward.
“Is cuma liom,”
she cried in Irish. “
Nil sé ag teastáil uaim. Níl uaim ach tusa. Tusa amháin.
”

“It is too late for that, Katy. It does not matter if you want it. You
are
Rardove.” They hauled him roughly away. “Be Rardove. I need you to be that, for me. For our people.”
 

With a wicked jerk, they turned him away. The soldiers holding Bertrand released him then, and he flew at Aodh in a fury. Aodh snapped his head back, then forward, and smashed his forehead into Bertrand’s face.

Bertrand stopped as if he’d run into a wall. With a surprised, pained grunt, he reeled back, his nose bleeding, then stumbled, and dropped to his buttocks in the mud.

The soldiers exploded into laughter. “Bring Aodh here,” the commander said, still laughing, holding out a hand for Aodh.
 

They propelled him up the hill. Blood trickled from his forehead down his cheek as he looked back at her. “I could not be more serious, Katy,” he said in Irish. “Do as I say. Go now. Stay near Ludthorpe. You will see your chance. Take it.”

Staying near the man who’d held her hostage for Aodh’s surrender seemed like a particularly bad idea. The commander held her gaze a moment, then, very levelly, shifted it away and put a hand on Aodh’s elbow. “Here we go.” Then he shouted, “Everyone, move out!” He snapped back at the soldier holding Katarina, “For God’s sake, release her and make yourself useful.”

With a jerk, the soldier did, then glanced at Bertrand, sprawled in the mud. “Ought I get him up, sir?”

Ludthorpe shook his head. “Not yet.” His gaze came up and brushed over hers. “Let’s be off,” he said to the soldier, and, very nonchalantly, very definitely, left her standing there, unbound and unguarded.
 

The soldiers tossed her a confused glance, but having no desire to gainsay their master, and having a great desire to get out of Ireland, they followed him.
 

The camp turned to noisy chaos as tents were broken down, wagons loaded, horses saddled. Only Katarina stood, twenty paces out from the main army camp, alone in the field, with Bertrand nearby, sitting in the mud, starting to groan and shake his head from side to side.

She backed up a few steps, then turned and ran.

Chapter Forty-Two

 
THE SOLDIERS UP ON the walls gave a shout when they saw her coming. Seven of them braved the open pathway to run to her, surround her like dark caped wraiths in the coming twilight, and hurry her back inside the walls.
 

She rushed straight for the keep, and straight into Dickon, almost toppling him over.
 

“My lady,” was all he said. His voice was broken, his face pale and haggard, his eyes red-rimmed; he’d been crying. “Oh, my lady,” he cried, then stilled when he noticed her face, where Bertrand had struck her. “What happened?”

She pulled him to her, then, holding his arms, set him away a little and peered into his eyes. “I am fine, but Dickon, heed me, we have things to do.”

“Aye, my lady,” he said miserably. “What?”

She squeezed his shoulder. “We must bring Lord Aodh home again.”

His eyes rounded and he straightened his scrawny spine. “Aye! My lady, aye!”
 

Holding him by the shoulder, as much to comfort him as support herself, she hurried them though the baileys. They were in an uproar. Shouts and yells rang from one end to the other. People ran here and there, shadows cast huge against walls as they passed to and fro. Both baileys were lit with bonfires and soldiers stood at the ready.

“Run and get Ré and Cormac,” she said in a low murmur that cut through the chaos. “And then bring my cloak. And sword. And pistols. To the front door, now, swift as swift can be.”
 

Dickon darted off and she hurried through the mayhem toward the keep, throwing off her hood, speaking to the castle folk she passed, who plied her with questions and fears.
 

On the walls and in every corner of both baileys, Aodh’s men and hers had joined together as one. They worked together to haul buckets laden with wood up the walls, to keep the huge kettles of oil boiling, which could be poured on the heads of enemy combatants who might try to breach the gates. Men and women perched together in the gloom, their bows aimed down in the valley below.
 

Even as she flew through the bailey, cries of alarm turned to cries of confusion, as the English army began moving out, leaving a smaller contingent behind.

Wicker ran past her, directing men with a stretch of his armored arm and loud, firm commands. When he saw her, he flung back his head and closed his eyes, then made the sign of the cross over his chest and hurried to her side.

“My lady,” he said, his face grim, gripping her arm. “Praise God you are returned to us.”
 

“We are going to get him back,” she said grimly.
 

His hand tightened on her forearm and his eyes lit. He went so far as to grin at her, because Wicker’s blood fired as hers did, and he had always been her biggest supporter. “How?” was all he said.

“In the way we have done all the rest, Wicker, by hook or by crook.”

His grin grew. “I’ll ready myself—”

“You’ll stay here.”

His face fell.

Now it was her turn to tighten her hold on his arm. “Wicker, I need you here. As captain of the guard. You
must
lead the men. You
must
hold the keep. There is no one else I can trust so well as you.” She squeezed his arm. “I am depending on you.”

Taut lines rippled along his jaw, then he gave a clipped nod.
 

She hurried to the keep. The shadows of hurrying people were tossed, long and haggard, up across the walls. She charged up the stairs to the keep and reached for the door just as it was flung open by Ré.

He and Cormac stopped short. They stared at her, her bruised face, their own faces devoid of emotion, but their eyes… Their leader and friend had been stripped from them. On account of her.