Rose of the Mists (39 page)

Robin was proud of himself for reacting so quickly to her distress. The bedside porcelain bowl performed admirably.

“Oh, Lord, not that too!” he groaned as he realized the most logical explanation of her distress. No wonder she’d waited so anxiously for Revelin’s return.

“’Tis of no great concern. ’Twill pass shortly,” Meghan murmured weakly when she was at last free of spasms.

“Aye, in about nine months’ time,” Robin muttered sagely, but returned innocent silence to her questioning look. “Into bed with you.” What did he care what the castlefolk thought? A man’s mistress may be sick in her own lover’s bed, he should think!

Meghan cast him a doubtful look as Robin tucked her under his covers, but she was too weak to protest. “You’ve a fine body,” she said before a yawn got the better of her.

Robin executed a courtly bow. “Mistress, I am eternal grateful for the observation. Now shut your lovely mouth and go to sleep!”

*

Sir Henry Sidney paced the floor of his chambers in the predawn light. The events of the last week had wreaked havoc upon his nights until this one he had passed without any sleep at all. What was he to do under the present situation but to give in gracefully? After all, it was not as if the O’Neill girl had been given specifically into his or the Crown’s care. He had been able to pry her loose from Revelin Butler by an invitation that few would have ignored. Besides, a young unmarried woman of noble birth could not reside unchaperoned in a bachelor’s household.

But this request from the earl of Ormond was not easily ignored. The earl’s brother Sir Edward was a married man with a family in residence in Kilkenny Castle. The O’Neill girl certainly would be properly chaperoned. That was not the problem. The problem was that an O’Neill would be cosseted in a Butler fortress at a time when some Butlers were openly defying English law by engaging in outlawed reiving against Sir Peter Carew. Sir Peter had received permission to raise an army to
fend off the attacks. He wished Sir Peter Godspeed in putting an end to the matter, but he doubted the old soldier’s ability to accomplish that much-needed task.

Sir Henry shook his head. Irish troubles pressed in on him on all sides. The earl of Desmond was a prisoner of the Crown, but in Munster his clansmen, the Fitzgeralds, were making warlike noises. Rumors said that the Butlers, the Fitzgeralds’ old enemies, were watching with interest. Any false move would be enough to touch match to wick, and the powder keg that was Ireland would explode in rebellion. No one knew where it would end if the Butlers threw their lot in with the Fitzgeralds.

He could ill afford to have the girl used as an excuse by the Butlers to send to Ulster for aid in case fortunes went against them. But neither could he afford to encourage sympathy for the Butlers by denying a reasonable request. There was sympathy enough for the Anglo-Irish landowners in Parliament. Why, the Palesman Sir Christopher Barneswall had joined Sir Edmund Butler in leading the opposition in The Commons against reform bills. No, he must allow the girl to go to Kilkenny.

“And I must hope to God that I will not live to regret it!”

Sir Henry turned impatiently as the knock he had been waiting for sounded at his door. He was not without a trick or two of this own, thanks to the queen’s latest missive. The Butlers had their allies, but so did he. For more than a month he had had an ear in Carew’s camp. Now he would plant one in Kilkenny. Perhaps things were turning in his favor after all.

“Come in, Sir Robin,” he said, smiling faintly when the opened door revealed his guest.

Chapter Fifteen

Kilkenny: Late July 1569

Meghan could not keep the smile from her face as she rode through the morning with Robin and the troop of Butler soldiers sent expressly to fetch her to Kilkenny Castle. Sunlight brightened the gentle rolling green of the countryside, while in the distance the remnant of a rain cloud dragged its dark curtain of water toward the horizon. The gusty west wind carried in its trail the faint spice of flowers and a tincture of loam. In the startling blue above, the sketch of birds’ wings completed the setting of the most beautiful day she could remember.

“’Tis a lovely sight!” Meghan exclaimed to her partner.

“Aye, ’tis lovely,” Robin answered in Gaelic. “Almost as lovely as you.”

Meghan flung him a surprised glance, then looked away. “Ye’re free with yer words, Sir Robin.”

Robin shrugged, unusually quiet. He was riding to Kilkenny when every sensible argument that had come to mind had urged
him to the contrary. He could easily have turned down Sir Sidney’s request to be the Crown’s eyes and ears in the Butler fortress. He had reminded the lord deputy that he was free to turn down any order that did not come directly from the queen’s hand, but he had not pursued the refusal because returning to England meant leaving Meghan.

And, like a fool, you cannot bear to be parted from her.

For a sennight he had known himself to be in love with Meghan O’Neill. It was foolish, improbable, and destined to end badly. Still, it was impossible to keep from his mind the hope that she would in time come to love him. The nurtured hope had been strengthened by a letter he had received from Revelin the day before they’d left Dublin.

His gaze lingered on Meghan’s profile with a touch of pity. He rode on her right, where her birthmark was not visible. The picture she presented was of an absurdly lovely young woman gowned in green velvet with matching gable headdress and black velvet
cale,
which hid the more vibrant ebony of her hair. Little did she know what the future held for her.

But when Revelin came to Kilkenny to break the news of his impending marriage, Robin would be there to comfort, to support, and to love her.

“And that, my lad, will be nearly as good as smashing Rev’s face,” he muttered to himself. It angered him to think how Meghan had suffered during Revelin’s absence, while Revelin, in London, had proposed to Lady Alison. It seemed only fair that Revelin should lose a mistress as he won a wife.

Concern furrowed Robin’s brow as Meghan shifted uncomfortably in her saddle. She spied his worried look and favored him with a brief but plucky smile. He looked away.

Poor ignorant girl. She had realized her situation only the day before when one of their soldier guards had made a pointed remark about her frequent bouts of illness on the trail. The look of incredulity on her face followed by her blissful smile at the realization that she was pregnant had twisted the knot
of jealousy that already plagued him. If he had not been so amazed by the depth of his feelings, he might have laughed at himself. Sir Robin Neville had fallen in love. How droll!

Riding for days, he knew, might cause her to miscarry; he thrust aside the thought that said it might be best for all if she did.

The day had warmed despite a midday shower and by late afternoon Meghan had pulled off her hood and released her hair in a cascade down her back. “How much longer?” she called to one of the Butler soldiers who rode with them.

“If ye’ll look beyond the trees, mistress, ye’ll be seeing a flash of light. ’Tis the river Nore which runs through Kilkenny Town. We’ll be home afore nightfall, have nae doubt of it.”

Squinting into the setting sun, Meghan saw, at last, a liquid ribbon of amber among the green. Kilkenny was a town whose main road led in from the south, so they had to ride past to come to it. Soon the pale crenellated battlements of the castle were visible above gable-roofed houses and green lawns. When the town gate came into view Meghan felt a tremor of misgiving.

Ever watchful, Robin spied the look of trepidation that came over her face and leaned near, offering her his hand. “Have no fear, dear lady. If the Butlers are half the hosts they’re reputed to be, we’ll be handsomely received.”

Meghan squeezed his hand briefly, then let it go. She had ridden several days to come to this place, the home of Revelin’s family. They had invited her, but would they genuinely welcome her when they discovered she carried Revelin’s child?

Revelin’s child! A smile of pride tugged at her lips. It was amazing, unbelievable, and yet…

The cry from their leader that halted the group startled Meghan. “What is it?” she asked. The soldier nearest her pointed to the south. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw a sight that had gone unnoticed until now. In the south a black snake of smoke uncurled as it climbed toward the sky.

“Reivers,” she whispered in dismay.

“Nae reivers, mistress,” the soldier answered. “The cursed Englishman Carew and his hellhound
bonaghts
!”
He spat a Gaelic curse and unsheathed his sword. Immediately Robin and the others did likewise.

“Ride for the gate!” the leader called, though his company needed no encouragement. The thundering sound of four dozen hooves accompanied their gallop for the city. The cry of
Buitiler a buadh!
opened the gates without hesitation and within moments all were safe inside the city walls.

Flushed and exhilarated by the ride, Meghan had no time to regain the tremulous feelings that had crept upon her when she spied the castle. It was not until the drawbridge was lowered and she rode under the portcullis beside Robin that she again felt the stirrings of uncertainty.

The castle took her breath away. She had been impressed by Dublin’s castle but had supposed that its grandeur was owed to the fact that it was owned by a queen. Never in her imaginings had she suspected that Revelin’s family would own something equally magnificent. Yet, before her stretched a wedge-shaped fortress wider toward the south, the main entrance. A large tower at each angle joined the battlements into a four-sided fortress.

From the outside, it appeared dark and foreboding. Once inside, the impression vanished. The castle teemed with people, and the early evening sun reflected from the long gallery windows facing inward and cast brilliant rainbow facets upon the courtyard below.

People came running from all directions as the travelers halted in the center of the keep-less castle. It was not as boisterous as the rousing welcome that had greeted Turlough’s returning warriors; but women with children at their skirts embraced a few of the Butler soldiers, while shy young servant girls in caps and long aprons appeared on the edges of the crowd, their faces animated by admiration of the men and curiosity about the newcomers.

“Chin up, mistress. Here come our hosts,” Robin whispered
encouragingly as he helped Meghan from her saddle. With a nod he directed her gaze to two men striding toward them.

Too late Meghan remembered the last of Mrs. Camera’s spate of instructions before she’d left Dublin. She was to have asked the party to pause outside the castle gates in order to allow her to set her appearance in order.

With dismay she looked down at her crushed, rain-dampened skirts. One hand went to the neck of her gown, where a ruff should have been, and the other made a desperate grab for her wind-blown tangle of blue-black hair. Without her headdress she was as good as naked to civilized folk, Mrs. Cambra had warned her. But it had been so warm, and Robin had not seemed to mind that she had completely forgotten about her dress until now.

Robin watched her panicky actions in sympathy coupled with purely masculine interest. She was wind-tossed and rain-dampened, true, but she could not have made more delightful impression on the male company. The raven tangles seemed artfully arranged curls, her flushed face a delight of maidenly blushes. As for her missing ruff, it gave them all a glimpse of the upper curves of her splendid breasts exquisitely outlined by her tight bodice.

As Meghan tried unsuccessfully to brush away the worst of the stains on her gown, a deep voice intoned, “Welcome, mistress, to Kilkenny Castle.
1
’

Startled by the volume of the deep voice, she looked up into a pair of wicked, warm brown eyes. The man was not tall but his breadth reminded her of Turlough, as did his sun-darkened face above his dark beard. He was dressed in the height of fashion, but that could not hide the raw energy of the man. The gold-embroidered jerkin he wore emphasized the width of his shoulders, and the black velvet doublet sleeves did the same for the enormous muscles of his arms. Without thinking, her gaze fell to where tight canions outlined hard-muscled thighs.

The man’s sudden bark of laughter made her gaze fly upward
again to find approval in his grinning face. “God’s light, mistress! You’ve looked me over as thoroughly as a bull at market. Would you buy, mistress, ’tis the question.”

The laughter of their audience made her brave. “Aye, were I in the market for a bull.”

“Mistress O’Neill!” Robin admonished, turning a brilliant shade of red. “’Tis Sir Piers Butler you address.”

“Aye, me name’s Piers, as if you give a damn,” Piers answered, his eyes never leaving Meghan. He rested his hands on his hips and threw out his chest as he looked her over with a more practiced skill than her own.

When his gaze came back to her face, Meghan’s complexion vied with Robin’s in its vivid hue, but she was not afraid. Only when his gaze fastened on her left cheek did she feel unease returning. Immediately she covered her mark with her hand and glanced uncertainly at Robin.

Piers’s black brows rose. “Are ye afeard of me?” he questioned in Gaelic.