Ronan's Bride (6 page)

“Hollow.”

Sefare glanced at him.

Ronan only flickered one at her before murmuring, “It was all for one purpose, and remains so. We had not the luxury, as the nobles and knights who do so only for glory, to bask in the cheers. Our reputations were not akin to that. We used that means to acquire wealth. To instill awe, and fear, and to meet our enemies one on one. I gave Pagan the leave to be champion—and used my wealth to ensnare and make those accountable, beholden to me.”

“And you’ve won. Vanquished them.”

“Not so.” He shook his head. “Only death. Mine. Perhaps Pagans, will end it.”

After a few quiet moments, she offered, “I dreamed of killing my husband, planned it, and went through the means; poison, swords, an accident. It was never possible, of course. However, there is no defining how it feels to be utterly at someone’s mercy, stripped of everything—when in the back of your mind, you can see yourself, if freed, able to kill them. Of course, freedom has to come—and it did not. Someone killed him for me. But it solves not all my problems.”

“Aye.” Ronan knew exactly those feelings, only he had been a lad then. Still, even absolution in that duel, did not bring back family, and it in essence enflamed those in exile further.

He stopped to remount, and then realized she would need a leg up on the massive horse. He dropped the reins of the trained mount, and lifted her where she waited, without thinking. He lifted her easily by the waist, his larger gloved hands under her cloak, feeling her shape in those few seconds.

When she was seated and taking up the reins, in lowering his hands from her, he brushed against her thigh. His gaze flickered up to find her looking down at him, her face a bit flushed. For a moment more he stood there, struggling between the allure of her, the natural attraction because he was a man and she was woman, and the reality that he knew—that such thoughts would lead where he would not go.

She murmured then, as if musing to herself, “It is odd, you know, but what one sees of your face, your eyes, it almost makes the mask you wear invisible.”

Ronan stiffened and stepped back. He went to his horse and mounted.

“Was I insensitive to say that?”

“Nay.” He stared at the path ahead as they rode back. “But ‘tis not simply my face that carries the past.” He kneed the horse to a gallop and she caught up. They rode back to the castle in silence.

* * * *

After parting from her, giving the horses over, Ronan went to the exercise yard with Ualtar, to work with the men. He avoided the probing looks the Celt gave him, having known of the ride—since Ronan excused himself from the training for an hour.

At the noon bell, they stopped and sheathed weapons. Ronan sat upon the low wall and ate cheese, bread, and sipped mead, beside the Celt. He had given over his cloak and his sleeves were rolled up, gloves peeled off, in favor of palm guards.

“Yer lady rides as well as Illara.”

“Aye.” Ronan looked at the Celt, ignoring the emphasis on your lady.

“Her men ha said she trained that steed herself. Quite a skill that.”

“Yes. She spoke of it.”

Ualtar grunted and bent his knee, drinking half the mead before wiping his mouth and saying, “I ha wind that she is meeting the Smith this after noon.”

Ronan regarded him. “They are females, what is the import in that?”

“If I ha me guess? I would say she desires to train. Yer sister in law, did mention Lord John taught the Lady Sefare too.”

Ronan got down from the wall, leaving his cloak there and sword. “Did the Smith tell you this?”

“Nay.” The Celt smiled, showing his white teeth. “’Twas a Groom what overheard a few things.”

“‘Tis not a bad thing. That she can defend herself.”

“N’er said it was. In fact, I agree. Better if she can. However, ‘tis assumed it ha been many years since she held a weapon.”

Hands on his hips, Ronan looked past the wall toward the main courtyard.

The Celt said, “Ye should take the tact that Pagan did. Better to be assured she is trained well, than scoff at the notion. Seems ta me she’s had little chance ta fight back, and has some anger to burn as well.”

“What would you have me do?” Ronan asked sarcastically. “Spar with her.”

Those green eyes twinkled. “In another manner, t’wounldnt hurt if ye did—spar— rather than act the stone and silent. However, I was speaking of the overseeing, to assure yerself ‘tis no play, but a serious skill.”

Ronan grunted again, but marking the hour, headed toward the castle. He strode across the courtyard, heading for the Smithy before he caught something out the corner of his eye. Passing by the arched and shaded tunnel that ran between chapel and keep, he caught the flash of blade.

Halting, he approached from the side and entered, staying near the wall and spotting them when his eyes adjusted to dimmer light. There was an unrolled hide with several swords and daggers laying in it. The women, uneven in height and bulk, were a foot beyond, facing and going through several slow movements with the blades they held—which told him they were discussing technique.

After some moments, the Smith, who was closest to him, stepped back, and an exchange of blows began. It was a testing, not aggressive. He moved closer, considering closely only Sefare now, in breeches, boots, linen tunic, and wielding a fine sword, light, decorative as Illara’s had been, but with a curve in the blade.

She was clearly focused, but as she was driven back a step, her gaze flickered to him. Ronan did not try to hide himself. His arms were folded, shoulders against the wall, and he merely observed.

The ring of blade, a hiss, and occasional grunt sounded. He did nothing for a half hour, even after the Smith too saw him and nodded, before getting back to the practice.

When Sefare held up her hand, they stopped, Sefare rubbing her wrist holding the sword and muttering something. The Smith went to two wineskins and tossed her one. She caught it with her free hand and came toward Ronan, putting down her sword to drink.

Unfolding his arms, he took it up and looked it over, feeling the damp hilt and glancing at her, the moment she wiped drops of water from her lips.

“Is this the sword you were trained with?”

“Nay.” She corked the skin and lay it down, going to the hide and returning, with a straight blade, plain hilt sword—save for the wider guard and wrapped grip. It had a unique thumbhole to keep a hand from slipping.

Ronan noted the small size of the hole and nodded. “This is your weapon.” He turned it and met her gaze. “Your hand is small, it slips on the other and that one is heavier, it tires your wrist.” He glanced at the Smith who sat on the ground, ankles crossed, watching them with interest, but merely listening.

Ronan looked back at Sefare. He took her hand. Next, he put it on the hilt. “Next time, wear a guard on your wrist. Not tight, but enough for support until you grow used to it again.”

“I will.”

He stepped close, having her against him, nearly under his shoulder as he kept his hand over hers, and swung the blade. “You are stiff, trying to employ the weapon separate from your body. Though you are light, you cannot think of the arm and sword separate. Step and move with it.”

For some moments more, he swung that way, using a free hand on her back and side to move her with the arc and thrust. Though serious with his intent, he was also too aware of the flowery scent and feel of her.

He stepped back, leaning against the wall again and saying, “Again, Isola, only this time, have Sefare come at you.”

The woman stood and nodded. She took up the defense and smiled at Sefare as she began an attack. It sounded worse than it was, and there was some arm jarring and blades meeting. Moreover, there was enough hits to count were it a real battle.

A bell rang. Isola called a halt. “I’ve work, My Lady.” She took Sefare’s hand. “Though I would rather stay, I must earn my bread.” She grinned a bit at Ronan, long strands of her wine hair loose and falling over her handsome face. “She is quite good. Merely rusty.”

The Smith left, taking the sword Sefare had thought she would choose. Ronan silently watched Sefare wrap and tie them again. When she was done and leaned against the wall, across from him, sipping water from the skin, he said quietly, “It is more than wielding a sword. You must have endurance, and be flexible. Have you another hour?”

“I have the whole eve.” She nodded and regarded him. “I have all the time needed for this. I would never have stopped, given the chance. As ‘tis, the years show, rather badly.”

“Come.”

She dropped the skin and came to him.

“Give me your hands.”

She offered them. Ronan covered her fists with his whole hand. As he applied pressure, she held his gaze, did so to the point her face sweated, when it became pain, she bent both arms at the elbow.

He let go and murmured, “Hurt?”

“Aye.” She laughed and winced. “All the way to the shoulder.”

“Come to the yard—bring Isola if you wish, and watch the men train. Find something equal to it, but not at the weight, to get muscle flexible and to strengthen again. Every movement of the fight can be agony if your body and arms are not used to it.”

She nodded and flexed her fingers.

Looking at him. Sefare said softly, “Lord John had means to do that. Before he let us have blades at all, we used sticks. However, Illara and I had to run, to jump and flip, and carry burdens half the day. He would laugh at times and shake his head, because Illara would push herself too hard.”

“And you?” Ronan searched her face, taken by how it changed when she reflected on a good memory. God’s truth, beyond beauty, she was a fascinating woman. For a man who had never allowed himself to be close to one—until Illara, and still that was not like…this…

“He would call me, little star, only in another tongue.” Sefare was saying, “He bragged to my father, who though he loved me, thought the thing an indulgence only. I was an apt student, but lacked aggressiveness. In those days, I had no anger in me. He said I was bright and quick.”

His gaze captured hers. “I would say a cool head conquers in battle. And ‘tis true. But anger can fuel beyond what the body can endure.”

She nodded.

He went to the swords, unwrapped, and looked through them, then wrapped them again. “Take these back, and return.”

She did, and whist she was gone, Ronan sat against the wall, in the cool space. He wondered how to train her without touching her. How to touch her, look at her, without being stirred. He could not summon his anger at it—because it made no difference. He could feel the anger, and still feel his body and senses stir when around her.

She entered again, and for the first few steps, he saw the outline of her torso, thanks to sunlight behind her. The slack in the linen shirt allowed him to see her tapered waist. The trousers fit snug, laced in front. She had slim hips, a rounded backside. Too well, he noted, as she drew close, she had shallow breasts that though the linen covered, did not prevent the nipples from prodding.

He stood and for a moment forgot why he had her return—forgot all—save that she was Sefare and lovely and his body was tight, blood warmer, heart beating deep and fast.

“Is something amiss?”

He blinked and realized she was staring at him, searching his face behind the mask.

“Nay,” he answered gruff. Then, telling himself he was mad, he said, “Go through the exercise Lord John showed you, without a weapon.”

She nodded and he sat down again, more because he felt off balance, but also to seriously observe. He was attending as she began movements similar to Illara’s. It was the same, making a small target, using litheness and speed, more graceful than lethal, though it served the same purpose.

Somewhere in watching, he again recognized her as a woman, female…his eyes wondering to the curve of her jaw, the small of her back, the glisten on her throat when she turned his way. Those were things he had never observed up close, never realized were stirring.

Focused, she ignored when her hair grew damp on her nape and brow.

Ronan could not.

When she stopped, breathing hard, and facing him, a race of hunger shot through him hard and fast enough to evoke another mental image; moist skin, parted lips, breathing hard…it was easy for him to equate it with sex.

Just when Sefare noticed the intensity, he did not know, but she did, and he knew it. For a moment, Ronan did not, or rather could not, mask it, and it doubtless was showing in his eyes.

Sefare wet her dry lips and suddenly turned from him, keeping her back that way while she drank from the wine skin.

Eyeing that slim back, the shirt damp, clinging to her skin, Ronan saw something more—something that twisted his guts.

“He flogged you.”

Sefare stiffened and whirled around, her eyes large and stark. She backed toward the wall until plastered against it. Arms across her middle, she shook her head.

Ronan took a step toward her, another, before stopping because she dropped her gaze.

He murmured, “He flogged you, Sefare?”

“Nay.” She sounded choked as she stared at the ground, squeezing herself with her arms. She said between her teeth as if speaking was painful, “They had a room in the topmost of the tower, with a contraption the women were taken to. An altar-like structure, with horns, which we knelt and clasped. There were ties to keep your hands fixed there. I was not always taken there."