The Irish Princess Page 2

  "'Twill be safer behind me," he said and without preamble, grasped her about the waist and shifted to deposit her on the horse's rump. Siobhàn blinked, clinging for balance as he neatly spun the steed about. His destrier pranced as nearly a dozen men in assorted tartans, their faces wrapped in soiled rags, rode murderously toward them. From three directions.

  Yet he did not ride.

  "Flee!" She jerked impatiently on his hauberk. "'Tis impossible odds!"

  "I never bend to a challenge," he tossed calmly over his shoulder as he pulled on his gauntlets.

  "Ahh! Words of an English fool," she muttered, bracing herself for the impact of the first thrust.

  A piercing Irish war cry shattered the air, riders advancing. Yet her rescuer simply grinned at his opponent, the other man's arm raised high to lop off the knight's head. They passed so close legs brushed, and with a sickening sound, the Englishman drove his sword into his attacker's chest, then just as swiftly shook the dead man off like a piece of discarded mutton. Then he charged, striking a numbing blow to the next challenger, unseating him without harm. Yet as he controlled the horse's motion with only the pressure of his thighs, she knew he was ill-matched for the remaining warriors. Her presence thwarted his very survival and as he struck out again and again, she used the distraction to slide to the ground, rolling away from the dangerous jumble of hooves. Siobhàn scooted back on her bottom, her dirk tight in her grasp. She watched. Watched this warrior demolish man after man, decapitate a horse with a single stroke of his broadsword, but when one opponent signaled and three gathered for attack, she knew she would watch him die.

  English or nay, he did not deserve such slaughter. And Siobhàn was powerless but for one defense. On her knees her arms down at her sides, the dirk in her hand, she concentrated, calling upon the elements to do her bidding. The thick, blue white mist rose swiftly, moving over the land, rising, and she prayed it was enough to shield the giant.

  Suddenly the woods erupted with silver knights and archers, startling her. Arrows whizzed through the air, striking horse flesh and human, screams of pain and the clash of metal nauseated her and she bowed her head, covering her ears—unaware of the knight charging toward her.

  Gaelan spurred his mount across the body-littered green, yet as his vassal lifted an arm, he knew he would not reach her in time. "Nay!" Regret and rage sliced through him as Sir Owen clubbed her to the ground. Gaelan rode, a specter of an avenging knight trampling the fallen and sending the remaining bandits scattering pell-mell into the fog. Around him, blood flowed from gaping wounds, steaming the air as he skidded to a halt and slid from Grayfalk's back. With a dark growl, he dragged Sir Owen from his mount and drove a fist into his unprotected jaw.

  Owen staggered, genuinely puzzled.

  "Could you not see 'twas a woman!"

  The knight swiped his lip with the back of his hand, inspecting it. "She's Irish. And armed."

  Gaelan's fist connected again, and this time Owen hit the cold ground. "Are you so hungry for blood you murder the innocent?" His roar carried to the trees, startling a flock of birds.

  "Nay, my lord, but we are here to fight—"

  "Women?" His gaze glowed with fury. "I am aware of my duty, knight. 'Twill do you well to find your tongue and hold it!" Gaelan's voice lowered to a sinister hiss. "More I cut it from your head!"

  Around them, men murmured at the threat.

  Gaelan made no attempt to curb his temper and ordered him off.

  "Raymond! Mark! Andrew! Give chase!" Gaelan barked, kneeling where she lay sprawled on the ground. His men obeyed, archers already heading to the dead to retrieve their arrows as Gaelan's hands moved roughly over her body, searching for broken bones.

  Grabbing up his helm, Owen climbed to his feet, glancing over his shoulder as he collected his weapons, the sight of his lord lifting the woman in his arms striking him hard. She lay limp and helpless, and in the excitement, he'd likely killed her. He regretted it and knew with Gaelan's temper, he would pay for his carelessness. 'Twas only a matter of when.

  Gaelan strode to his horse, swinging up onto its back and cradling the woman on his lap. "Do not perish now, lass." Biting the tip of his gauntlet, Gaelan removed the glove and brushed his fingers over her head, probing gently. He cursed foully when his fingers came away stained with blood and his gaze lifted to Owen's. The younger man paled at the rage borne there.

  His dark gaze snapped to the vassals gaping at him and Gaelan knew his manner confused them. He did not perceive it well himself, for he'd never reacted like this to so simple an injury. Annoyed that his troops would find him weakened for a female, his temper simmered, his gaze thin and pricking on each man. He questioned them mercilessly and discovered he was only a day's ride from camp.

  "Your reluctance to leave your warm pallets and come search has cost us days of travel and two brave men. Care for the dead. The wounded ride." His gaze fastened on a knight adjusting his weapons. "Sir Owen?"

  Owen turned his head and without expression, addressed Gaelan. "My lord?"

  Gaelan flicked a hand toward the forest. "Lead the way." With his sleeve pressed to her temple, Gaelan held her close, whispering for her to rouse, praying that she'd waken and be whole again. He wished he knew her name. Suddenly he felt the exhaustion of traveling in circles for two nights and he cursed his arrogance for not hiring a villager to guide them across this godforsaken land, then cursed his gallant act on behalf of the king. If not for that one moment of unpaid service to his liege, his presence here would not have wounded this fair Irish lass.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

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  A motley collection of men roamed through the encampment, tending duties, changing the watch. Several souls braved the cold to hover over large cook fires, stirring and ladling food into wood bowls for a line of hungry soldiers and bowmen. Youths with scarcely a hair on their chests sat cross-legged on the damp earth, repairing bridles or boots. A woman or two sauntered through the throngs of rough men, gaining a friendly pat on the backside, a coin and an appointment for after nightfall or garments to launder. No one stood idle.

  The rumble of hooves brought heads up as the small brigade rode into the center of the clearing, young squires and pages racing to take mounts for care and feeding. The ring of hammers on dented armor or the grind of wet stones honing a fresh edge to a blade lent its usual peace to Gaelan as he slowed his mount. The smell of roasting meat punctured the air between the odors of unwashed bodies, burning peat and the cool, bracing scent of coming night. Eventide in Ireland, Gaelan thought, somehow washed away the dreariness and soil of the day with her approaching mist.

  He glanced about, noting the curious looks directed at the bit of baggage in his arms. His returning scowl sent all but the fearless back to their duties as he swung his leg over the neck of his mount. He hit the ground with a jolt. The lass didn't stir, yet as he crossed the yard to his pavilion, he heard shocked gasps, the slide of several broadswords leaving their scabbards. He paused and turned, his gaze lowering to the white wolf, its teeth bared, its body crouched low for attack. On him.

  He was wondering where the beast had gone. Gaelan glanced at his men, terror and boldness in nearly fifty faces. Several devout souls crossed themselves. His own hounds barked wildly, challenging the threat to their territory, and were quickly restrained. He continued on to the tent, yet the deepening growl made him turn back again. His gaze went to a man poised with a loaded crossbow.

  "Be takin' me but one shot, m'lord."

  "Nay," he said softly and slowly bent to one knee, the lass cradled in his arms.

  "My lord?"

  "'Tis the woman's protector." A murmur of surprise rose softly from the gathered crowd. Gaelan tucked his hand beneath his armpit and removed his glove, then extended his unprotected fingers to the beast.

  The hair on the animal's spine rose in silent warning.

  Nearly a dozen more swords left their homes.

  "My lord? Dare not,"
someone warned.

  "I've meat, mayhaps a bribe?" Reese, a strapping young man who'd one day be a great knight, stepped forward. Yet as he did, the animal spun around, growling and snapping, lips pulled back to bare savagely sharp fangs for the stunned crowd.

  "Culhainn!"

  Still facing Reese, the wolf twisted its majestic head toward Gaelan, ice blue eyes challenging.

  "'Tis Culhainn, eh?" A powerful creature, Gaelan thought, snow-white fur tipped with gray and fanning out on end around its broad neck like a royal collar. The red ears were startling, offering an almost mystical attribute to an already strange animal. Intelligence glittered from cerulean eyes. For so loyal a pet, he would have expected the huge wiry-faced wolfhounds he'd seen since arriving, not this canine warrior, and Gaelan chanced that the top of this animal's head reached his thigh. A stout claim, for he'd yet to meet another soul to match his own size.

  Gaelan offered his hand to the hungry beast again. The growling lessened as Culhainn pawed forward and Gaelan allowed the wolf to scent him. The animal sniffed, drawing closer, and when the wolf tilted his head, pale blue eyes gazing calmly into dark brown, Gaelan knew Culhainn picked his mistress's scent from his garments, his skin. The wolf settled back on its haunches and did the unexpected; he wagged his tail. And whimpered.

  Gaelan's lips twitched. "Mighty puppy," he murmured, encouraging him closer, his fingers singing into the thick coat behind its ears. He didn't proceed further, not trusting his new friend against attack with his people so close, and rose slowly, his arms full of the woman. "Disband. Prudently," he ordered with a warning glance. He looked down at Culhainn. "Stay put, beast, and there will be food for that empty belly instead of English fingers."

  Culhainn barked once and Gaelan arched a brow, a scoff escaping his lips before he ducked into the tent and immediately strode to his pallet. He laid her gently in the soft center, then covered her with a fur. He brushed his knuckles across the smoothness of her cheek, his thumb over her lips, then stepped back. He'd no time to waste with wenching, he thought, busying himself with removing his scabbard and dropping it upon a chest. Plowing his fingers through his hair, he wondered what to do with her. He scoffed ruefully. Oh aye, he knew what he would like to do with her and it entailed a bit of loveplay beneath those furs, but surely someone would miss the lass, a father or mayhaps, a husband. A few coins paid would suffice for the injury his man had inflicted, but Gaelan did not want to think who'd he pay it to. A husband most likely. She was too comely to go unnoticed and old enough to be wed a few years. The thought sat like spoiled beef in his belly and the possessiveness he felt toward one he scarcely knew agitated the bloody hell out of him. His booming voice proved it when he called for his page, ordering water and cloths and a bit of broth.

  "M'lord?" came a timid call moments later.

  "Come forth, boy."

  "'Tis a wish that I could, sir."

  With his hands on his hips, he stared at the moth-eaten ceiling and shook his head. "Culhainn, allow him passage. 'Tis for your mistress he comes." The wolf must have stepped aside, for the boy burst through the flap, glancing nervously back over his shoulder and nearly colliding with Gaelan. He lifted his gaze to his master. "Over there," he barked and the boy made haste to lay the items down, his fear carrying him swiftly out of the tent.

  Children. An annoyance, Gaelan thought, for he knew he'd no patience for their incessant questions and clumsiness. It was difficult enough to train men for battle without worrying over the welfare of helpless babes.

  A peal of soft laughter sounded close, and Gaelan glanced to the open tent flap, his lips tugging in a reluctant smile. The boy, Jace, knelt a safe distance before the wolf as the animal raised its plump paw, stroking the air. Jace scrambled back on his rump, but Culhainn, brave soul, didn't move. Gaelan returned his gaze to his guest, wondering what name fit her. He supposed he should see to her injury, he thought, and knelt beside the well-stuffed pallet, pushing back the fur to examine her wound. It was hardly a scrape and he knew the power of Owen's blow and hitting the ground sent her into the void of unconsciousness. He shook her gently, then sighed when he received no response, and turned to the bowl and rags on the small stool. He soaked a cloth and tipped her head to clean the wound, guilt gentling his touch.

  He studied her dispassionately, resoaking the rag, wringing it out and swiping her face clean, then her throat. Clothing often told of one's life and her kirtle was of no significance, a heavy dull brown, modestly cut. But that the side laces were strained told him her body was lusher than he first thought. Or felt. The cap of her sleeves were stitched tight, fanning wide at her wrist, her undershift a coarse linen, heavy and serviceable, puffing out around the bodice and through the slits in the length of the sleeves. A bluish-red stained her fingertips, her lips bearing a tinge of a berry sampling. A smile ghosted across his lips and even as he wondered were she found fruit in this weather, he wanted to taste those delectable lips till…

  Was there no peace with her near? He shot to his feet, throwing the rag in the bowl. This insufferable pounding through his being disturbed, yet he recognized that it drove deeper, contrary to anything he'd experienced before. He chose not to examine it. It would lead him nowhere. Yet without pause, he took her hand, and turning the palm up, bent deeply to bring it to his lips. He frowned. Her skin was warm, too warm, and he touched her forehead, brushing back the wild curtain of hair, his hand lingering when it should not.

  A thin vapor hovered over her skin like a barrier, warning him not to touch when he'd already tasted. It was unnatural for her skin to be hot enough to create steam, and Gaelan bent over her, loosening her laces, her breasts expanding with the freedom. Briefly he closed his eyes, summoning the tatters of his knightly attributes before gathering her into his arms. He worked the fabric over her head, drawing the feminine layers along. His forearm brushed the side of her naked breast. Gaelan grit his teeth. God's blood, her skin was soft and hot, and his imagination brewed images of tasting that skin, this woman, until he thought he'd rent apart.

  Duty served, he threw a fur over her nakedness and lurched to the opposite side of the tent. Damn me, but he ought to be knighted again for that. And the shadowed glimpse of her body, lush and full and itching for a man to love scorched along in his brain, again. And again. He slammed his eyes shut. But the vision taunted, exploding with the cool drape of deep red hair and tinkling bells framing her breasts and hips as she sat up in his bed, beckoning him, aching for him as he suddenly was for her. Gaelan plowed his fingers into his hair and sought a needed distraction.

  Fortunately, Jace entered with a trencher of roasted meat and cheese, and Gaelan didn't realize how hungry he was till he scented it. Quickly, he loosed the armor breastplate himself, handing it to Jace, amusement lighting his dark features as the lad staggered under its weight. Gaelan stripped off his mail and hauberk, the leather jerkin and his worn linen shirt, then bid the boy to his duty of cleaning it and bringing his armor to Reese for polishing before dismissing him. He reached for a pitcher of water.

  He prayed it was cold.

  Off in a corner, beyond the frayed rug, Gaelan sluiced water over his head, soaping his chest and hair, then rinsing himself. With a chilling growl, he shook his head like a dog, sending water in a fine spray into the air, then took up a scrap of linen and rubbed himself dry.

  The muddy haze lifted sharply and Siobhàn blinked, realizing water dripped down her face. She was about to brush it aside when she heard movement. Keeping her eyes sealed to mere slits, she glanced to her right. Her breath caught. Jager me. Arm muscles as big as her thighs jumped and flexed as he rubbed the cloth over his deeply sculpted chest. Water glistened on his skin, skin she never thought to see so bronzed by the sun, the dampness molding his braies to his buttocks, his hips and the prominent bulge between broad thighs. Siobhàn wet her lips and admired his physique, a swift, hot ache pulsing through her loins.

  Long of limb, he was by far the biggest man she'd ever clapped
eyes on. By the Goddess, 'twas no wonder he could cleave a horse's head from its neck. And what would he do to her? She'd considered the possibilities when she'd roused once along the journey, but the pain in her head and her inability to overpower him had sent her diving blissfully toward oblivion again. With the hard jolting ride here, she'd welcomed it. Now she need only pretend that condition till he departed. Relying on his good graces to release her was not a risk she chose to take.

  Oblivious to her scrutiny, he plucked a chunk of mutton from the trencher, shoving it into his mouth as he strode to the chest and rummaged a bit, slipping a lawn shirt over his head. He moved to a table, grasping an urn of wine, splashing a healthy draught into a dented goblet. He drained it without ceasing, then filled it again before taking a seat near a small brazier and stretching out his long legs.

  Ah, Goddess, you were too generous with this Englishman, she thought, wincing at the dull throb in her head. She was glad his back was to her and indulged in a thorough look of such a fine specimen of masculinity. The linen—definitely not Irish, she judged—stretched tight over his shoulders, his damp hair wetting the fabric. But as she watched him eat, a strange pleasure rolled through her body and in the same instant, she realized she was naked.

  A blush, hot and vivid, raced up from her bare knees and her gaze narrowed on his back. Dare you much, my lord knight. The absolute insolence of the man, taking off her garments for a head injury. Who was he jesting? Curse him, she thought, wishing he'd leave so she could go too. He was a fool if he thought lack of clothing would keep her malleable, and though her meager garments told him he'd gain little by ransoming her, Siobhàn was not willing to gamble on it. Her gaze slid about the tent, searching for an escape route and touching on a scarred stool, a table tilting to one side, the battered chest. His accommodations were well used and not fine to start, and she deduced she was a prisoner of the lowest of English knights. Although she'd encountered only two in her life, naught she saw claimed otherwise. An array of weapons and armor lay on racks and trunks near the tent's far wall, yet she noticed there were no personal items in view. As if no one truly dwelled here. Except a warrior. Did he not have a favored mantle clasp or a book, mayhaps? Even as she considered that he likely could not read, she felt a tinge of pity for so lonely an existence. That was if she could pity an English invader. Which she did not.