Wild Roses (35 page)

"Poor, sweet Maire . . . how you've
suffered."

Tears stung her eyes, but she willed them away; no
amount of weeping would alter the horror she'd seen upon that drawbridge . . .
the savage thrust of Gerard de Barry's sword—God help her, Duncan falling to
his knees. She had wanted so desperately to go to him even as she'd known Ronan
would prevent it, Maire astounded still that he had unleashed one of his arrows
and struck Gerard down.

"Triona told us everything, Ronan and I—Good God,
you deserve some happiness more than any of us! Irish, Norman, if the man is
honorable and truly loves you—"

"I don't know if Duncan loves me . . . loved
me." Her throat grew so tight Maire could barely speak. "I don't know
if he lives—"

"If he lives, he loves you, the man would be an
accursed fool for it to be otherwise!" Niall rose from the bed and began
to pace the room, his agitation mounting as he seemed to be thinking aloud.
"Ronan won't be happy if I go—Ronan be damned! Did he turn Triona away
when he learned of the blood she bore in her veins?"

Maire could only watch Niall with growing concern as he
paced back and forth, a wildness about him, his face stricken again, and she
feared then that the news Caitlin had forsaken him had not fully struck him
yet, far worse depths to be known. She started when he stopped abruptly to look
at her, and she saw in his tortured eyes how dearly he suffered, too.

"Do you want to know if the baron lives?"

She stared at him, dumbstruck, her heart begun to race.

"Answer me, Maire O'Byrne! Do you want to know if
the man you love lives?"

"A-aye, Niall, but—"

"The devil take it then, at least I can do that
much for you. Watch for me within two days."

He said no more but left the room while Maire,
incredulous, sank onto the pillows. Surely he didn't intend to ride back to
West Meath and Ennell Castle—would he?

She had only to think of the strange wildness she'd
sensed within him to know that was exactly what Niall planned, and she knew,
too, that no one, not her, not Triona or even Ronan, would be able to stop him.
And his words . . .
Good God, you deserve
some happiness more than any of us!
Did Niall believe that if Duncan lived,
there might be some slight hope . . . ?

Maire rose from the bed, such a tumult of emotion
filling her that she didn't want to lie there another moment. Begorra, she'd
already done so for two days!

Her legs were shaky, but she managed well enough to
reach the ornately carved chest which held all her clothing. Her hands were
shaking as she threw back the lid and pulled out a gown of vibrant green silk
that made her spirits soar all the more dizzily.

She changed out of her sleeping gown quickly, so
light-headed and flushed she had to take a few moments to catch her breath. She
donned soft slippers, too, combed her hair, astounded that her appetite had
suddenly grown so fierce, her stomach growling noisily.

Triona had coaxed her to eat a wee bit of broth, but
she'd taken little else, not wanting to eat, not wanting to speak until Triona
had finally convinced her that she must to ease some of her grief. Yet even
that hadn't helped, given what she'd heard Ronan shout from the other room
about Duncan. She had wanted to do no more than keep her face turned to the
wall, the ache inside her so terrible at times she'd wanted to cease breathing
altogether.

Maire went to the door, as astonished that the pain
seemed not so intense now, though she tried to tell herself she knew nothing
yet . . . that she would be foolish to allow vain hope to overwhelm her. Ah,
but if it were so! That she and Duncan might yet—

"Aye, little sister, that's much better now."

Maire gasped to find Niall waiting for her just outside
her bedchamber, the tiniest familiar bit of light in his eyes as he gave her a
fleeting smile, then turned and strode from the dwelling-house.

This time she couldn't keep the tears from coming. As
her hope flared all the brighter, she realized he'd given her much more that
day than she could ever thank him for.

***

"Baron . . . the O'Melaghlin has sent his own
healer."

As Edward de Valognes bent low to his ear to speak to
him, Duncan gritted his teeth through the pain ravaging his body and nodded.
But he cursed violently in a rasping voice that didn't even sound like his own
when a spare little man with owlish eyes moved to the bed and drew the bloodied
bandages from his right side. Some of the linen sticking to the ugly wound had
to be pulled away, the sensation stinging like fire.

"Forgive me, lord—oh, aye, clean through to the
ribs, not good, not bad—"

"God's teeth, man, which is it?" Duncan
gripped the side of the mattress and raised his head to see as the healer began
to poke lightly and prod, Edward's usually swarthy face grown so pale the
knight appeared as if he might retch. "Will I live or die?"

"You, lord? Ah, me, I'm no seer—"

"Will I live or die?"

His roar making everyone in the room stare wide-eyed,
poor Clement who'd exhausted his talents in trying to help him, a pair of
O'Melaghlins who'd accompanied the healer, Edward de Valognes and several other
knights standing guard at the door to his quarters, Duncan ignored them all and
kept his gaze riveted upon the little man who busily began to prepare an herb
poultice.

"Most likely you will live, lord . . . unless the
wound turns poisonous. I smell some in the flesh already, but I pray it's not
too late."

At this grim news Duncan swore again and let his head
sink upon the sweat-soaked pillow.

"Your own healer deserves much praise for keeping
you upon God's earth this long—is he here?"

"Clement, come."

Ashen-faced, the stout friar approached the bed at
Duncan's hoarse command and was immediately handed several iron rods with
sharpened tips by the Irishman who appeared only a third his size.

"We must burn the wound."

"Burn it?" Clement's voice stricken, he
crossed himself and glanced doubtfully at Duncan. "Lord—"

"Hear the man!" A searing wave of pain so
intense struck Duncan that he once more dropped his head to the pillow while
Clement blanched and nodded.

"It is a thing learned from a traveling priest who
spent many years in the Holy Land," came the Irish healer's grim voice.
"Set the rods in the fire—we must waste no time."

Duncan distantly heard Clement's murmured assent
through a familiar blackness threatening to overwhelm him.

By the blood of God, he had felt the same before when
he'd nearly died two years ago—and he did not want to die! He could not die!
Maire was waiting for him, he could sense it even now. She was thinking of him
just as he'd thought of little else but her, every moment of agony no matter
his curses making him thank the saints in heaven he was yet alive.

"Baron, can you hear me?"

Duncan opened his eyes, Edward's face strangely blurred
as the knight once more leaned close to his ear.

"Word has just been brought from Lady de Londres's
guards. She threatens not to eat, my lord, not unless she's released at once—"

"Then she may starve." Such fury welled
inside Duncan at the thought of Adele, at the thought of Gerard spurred to
attack him at his half sister's treacherous urging, that he sensed such violent
emotion alone would help him survive. He ground his teeth at another wave of
pain. "Let her scream, make her threats . . . there'll be no change to my
orders. She remains a prisoner."

Edward de Valognes nodded gravely and moved away, and
Duncan shut his eyes against the glowing tips on the rods being brought back to
the bed by Clement.

God help him, he thought no more of Gerard, struck
through the heart by an Irish rebel's arrow that had saved his own life. He
thought no more of Adele.

He clenched his jaw as he sensed heat drawing nearer
his flesh, and thought only of Maire.

Chapter 34

"Aye, this babe will be a son for Ronan, I know
it."

Maire looked up in astonishment from playing with
little Deirdre. Triona's lovely green eyes were alight as she held her hands to
her stomach, which still bore no sign she carried a child.

"It's a secret though, Maire. Ronan can't know,
not yet. Do you promise me? I want to wait a while longer to tell him."

Maire nodded, her throat tightening at the shadow that
touched Triona's face, and Maire knew Triona was thinking of the unborn child,
a boy, she'd lost some six months ago. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, had it been that
long? Familiar heartache suddenly gripping her, Maire was glad to be distracted
by Deirdre's antics with her wooden toys. Though she'd been back in Glenmalure
two months, it was still so hard for her to believe.

Two months. And with each passing day her hope grew
dimmer, even the afternoon when Niall had returned with word that Duncan was
alive had become a memory more like a dream than it had truly happened.

Niall had refused to enter the stronghold, shouting
what he'd discovered at the top of his lungs to clansmen guarding the stout
outer gate, who'd then brought the news to Maire. They had said, too, that
Niall had then ridden away, adding nothing else to give them a hint as to his
destination.

Ronan hadn't been pleased about any of it: Niall riding
back to West Meath, his news about Duncan, or that the younger brother he'd
chosen as his Tanist and who would one day, if the need ever arose, become the
chieftain of the Glenmalure O'Byrnes, had disappeared and not been heard from
since.

Not pleased? Maire almost shuddered as she rolled a
ball of woolen thread toward Deirdre's snow-white kitten, remembering how
furious Ronan had been when a few days had passed and still Niall hadn't
returned home.

He'd ridden himself to Ferns in Wexford to speak with
Donal MacMurrough, the powerful chieftain as resigned as any father whose
daughter had broken her troth to one man so she might marry another. And Donal
had seen no sign of Niall, as much to his relief since he wanted no deadly
battle fought over Caitlin. Aye, she would be wed to the MacMurrough's godson
Brian by now —

"Maire?"

She met Triona's concerned gaze, that she'd remained
silent no doubt leading Triona to guess her thoughts. Yet how selfish of her!
She tried to summon a smile, but it was halfhearted at best. It seemed she
could rarely do better.

"Forgive me, Triona, truly I'm happy for you

"As I wish I could be happy for you. I so hoped, for
your sake, that you carried a babe, too. Have you told Ronan yet?"

Her throat growing all the tighter, Maire shook her
head, the final proof she'd wanted so desperately not to see come only a week
ago. Her monthly flow had arrived last month, too, but she hadn't wanted to
believe then either, that she didn't carry Duncan's child.

She swallowed hard. Niall had shouted to her clansmen,
too, that Duncan was gravely wounded, the villagers he'd spoken to outside
Ennell Castle knowing only that a healer had come from clan O'Melaghlin. Now
she had no hope of a babe, and if these two long months meant Duncan hadn't
survived—saints help her! She couldn't think of it, wouldn't think of it! He
had to be alive, or how else would she go on breathing?

As if sensing her despair, Triona rose from her chair
and scooped up Deirdre, who began to protest until the beautiful child was
placed in Maire's lap. At once chubby arms flew around her neck to hug her, and
Maire inhaled the sweet scent of Deirdre's midnight curls. Triona sank to her
knees beside her.

"I cannot forgive Ronan for treating you so
unkindly, and I will speak of it to him tonight. Begorra, Maire, no more! Two
months to lay such anger at your feet. I've held my tongue for too long
and—"

"No, Triona, please. It would be far worse to
bring this thing between you. Ronan's raided against Normans much of his life,
our clansmen—Fiach and the others, your father, too, died at their hands. He
cannot help but feel hatred for them."

"Aye, I remember a time when I feared he would
hate me as well . . ."

As Triona fell silent, Maire let Deirdre climb from her
lap; the child toddled after her kitten and nearly tripped over Conn, Triona's
huge wolfhound, who slept by the hearth. Yet all were startled when a loud
pounding came at the door, Conn jumping up to bark, the kitten yowling and
streaking into an adjoining bedchamber. Triona glanced at Maire and then rose
to rush across the room, gathering up little Deirdre on the way. Maire arose
too, as Triona threw open the door to a clansman whose ruddy face in the bright
afternoon sun was even redder from exertion.

"Lady, the O'Byrne sent me running to tell you
Niall rides across the glen."

"Niall?" Maire hastened as well as she could
to reach Triona, who held out her hand, her voice filled with as much scolding
as excitement.

"It's time enough he came home to us! Come, Maire,
I'll help you."

Together they stepped outside Ronan and Triona's
dwelling-house to find other clansmen running toward the gates, wives and
laughing children. Maire felt such overwhelming relief she couldn't help being
caught up in the excitement, and she found herself smiling too.

All three massive sets of gates guarding the stronghold
had been thrown open to welcome Niall. Maire was out of breath and her legs aching
from hurrying by the time she and Triona reached the second. A large cluster of
clansmen stood at the outer gate, and Maire could see Ronan's dark head at the
front of them all, where he no doubt waited to greet Niall as much as heatedly
demand where he'd been.

Yet her brothers were so close, aye, they would resolve
any differences between them, Maire was certain. And mayhap one day Ronan would
find it within his heart to forgive her. She knew his anger stemmed from love—