“Get your lazy arse up, witch! This ain’t no resort!”
Aisling sat up with a jerk—heart pounding at the loud roar of Padraig’s harsh voice. She stared at him as he stood in the doorway with a look of supreme satisfaction on his beefy face.
“Did I scare you?” He sneered.
The room was bright with sunlight that made her squint. Her mouth tasted as though a warthog had left its morning offering there. Although there were no mirrors in the room—or over the sink in the bathing chamber for that matter—she knew her hair had to be sticking up all over her head for she was one of those who tossed and turned during the night. Looking down at her gown, she winced. There were so many wrinkles she didn’t think an iron would help. The skirt was filthy and the hem torn so the wrinkles were the least of her worries.
“I said get up. He ain’t got all day to be waiting on your arse,” Padraig stated. “He sent me to fetch you.”
She looked toward the bathing chamber then swung her legs from the bed. She took two steps toward the room before he came stomping over to her.
“Get your arse in gear!” he said, grabbing her by the arm.
“I need to pee!” she said, pulling against his hold. She glared up at him and when his hand tightened, she lifted her foot and stomped on his instep.
Not that it would have hurt him since she was barefoot, but it did surprise him enough that his grip loosened.
“Let go of my arm, you insufferable bully!” she shouted and snatched her arm out of his hold, “or I’ll drive my knee straight into your stones!”
Padraig’s eyes narrowed then a glint of speculation entered the dark depths. He released her arm then cocked his granite chin toward the bathing chamber door. “Then go on with you,” he commanded. “Sprinkle your piss in the pot but leave the door open.”
“I will not,” she said, spinning on her heel. She got as far as the door before she heard him coming after her. She tried to get inside the room and shut the door in his face—praying there was a lock—but he crammed his big boot into the crack between door edge and jamb.
“I said leave the door open!” he snarled.
“Why?” she shouted at him. “Where do you think I can go? There are no weapons in here, you pig. Do you expect me to attack you with a towel?”
“No, but I’ll gag you with one if you say one more word,” he warned. “Get in there and piss or before the gods I’ll hike you onto my shoulder and carry you to him that way!”
“Try it and I’ll piss down your bloody chest!” she threatened.
He blinked—completely taken back by her venomous warning. She saw his lips twitch before his face turned rock-hard once more. He shoved the door and she stumbled back. Had it not been for him reaching out to grab her, she would have fallen into the tub.
“Fucking women are the bane of a man’s existence,” he said, righting her then letting go of her arm.
“Fucking men are the bane of a woman’s!” she shouted back at him. She knew there would be a bruise around her wrist.
He narrowed his eyes again, snarled then left the room. “Leave it open or else!” he warned.
Her bladder aching, she hiked up her skirt and perched on the toilet—her eyes glued to the open door. At least the bastard wasn’t standing there gawking at her. When she finished, she washed her hands then joined him in the bedchamber. He was standing at the door with his arms crossed, his angry face turned her way.
“Let’s go,” he demanded.
She went over to the loveseat, retrieved her slippers and slid her feet into them.
“You are trying my patience, witch,” he said as she came toward him.
“What patience?” she countered. When she would have moved past him, he shot out an arm to block of exit. She looked up at him.
“If you ever use that dirty word in my presence again, I’ll turn your shapely little ass over my knee and pound on it until you won’t be able to sit down for a full day then I’ll wash your mouth out with lye soap,” he said. “Do I make myself clear to you?”
“Crystal,” she said with a lift of her chin.
“Good,” he stated then lowered his arm.
****
Darque Anbhás slouched tiredly upon the throne from which generations of Anbhás men had ruled the Duibhlinn. He was exhausted for he had spent a restless night on his knees praying for the souls of those whose ashes now rested in the columbarium. He had sent his mistress away because he did not want her to see the tears he knew he was going to shed for those poor souls.
One soul in particular. The urn which contained that soul had not been placed in a niche in the columbarium with the others who had died at the High Falls. It rested on the mantle in Darque’s room. He was not ready yet to let go of his baby brother, and having Eon’s earthly remains close at hand helped ease the sorrow that lay like a heavy iron bar across Darque’s shoulders.
He felt the tears burning behind his eyes again and bit his tongue. No one—not even his beloved mother—had ever seen him cry. It was a point of honor to him that no one ever did. His father had dared him to shed the first tear when he was being punished as a child and he had not. At least not where anyone could see. Alone in his room, he had silently shed many a tear.
“Did you eat last eve?” his mother asked. She was sitting in the chair beside his for she was the Máistreás—the mistress—of Daingean in the absence of a wife.
“I wasn’t hungry,” he said. He was gripping the curled edge of the chair arm so tightly his knuckles had bled of color.
“Then you need to break your fast when this is done,” she said.
“I will.”
“You’ll get sick if you don’t.”
“I said I will, Máthair,” he told her a bit harsher than he intended.
****
Barúness Eugenie Anbhás pursed her lips. She knew her son’s moods better than even his best friend Paddy did. He was staring sullenly at the doorway through which Paddy would bring the only daughter of Duke Broderick Meyrick, the Lord High Chancellor of the Chónaidhm, and she knew what he was thinking. The tight bunching of the muscle in his jaw said it all. There was fury in her son’s eyes and that did not bode well for the girl.
“Calm yourself,” she advised. “You can win dragonflies easier with honey than vinegar.”
“I don’t want to win the woman, Máthair,” he snapped. “I want to wrap my hands around her throat and tear her head off then send it to Meyrick as that bastard sent Eon’s to me.”
Eugenie closed her eyes and touched her heart with her thumb, index and middle fingers. It was the an Tuaisceartian sign of mourning for a loved one. Though Eon had been one of her late husband’s many illegitimate children, she had cared deeply for the young man. Everyone had. His senseless murder had nearly destroyed Darque. She feared it would haunt him, hurt him, and torment him for the remainder of his life. Until the day after forever she would hear his bellow of grief when he had been presented the wicker basket in which Eon’s head lay amidst a pile of human dung.
“I am only counseling patience and restraint, my son,” Eugenie said. She heard him snort and said no more. Arguing with her son was like arguing with a stone wall. She lowered her hand to her lap and intertwined her fingers. She almost felt sorry for the girl.
Almost.
Were she not Meyrick’s spawn, there might have been more sympathy for her plight for she knew what her son had in store for the girl and was uneasy about it. Yet there was Eon’s death to avenge…
“What you should do is turn the bitch over to your men to break in.”
Eugenie looked at the young woman who stood beside her and frowned. “It is not your place to give the Taoiseach advice,” she said pointedly. “And such vulgarity is certainly not appropriate.”
“Keep quiet, Maire,” Darque said softly but with enough menace that Maire Beirne clamped her mouth shut.
Glancing at her son’s ward, Eugenie wished—and not for the first time—that the Barún Codac Beirne had not succumbed to his battle wounds and the girl’s mother not ran off with a gypsy troubadour. Having the arrogant little twit sent to Daingean had surely been the act of the diabhal, himself. Maire was a selfish, entitled, self-serving menace Darque did not need in his life at such a trying time. It did not help that the girl had a mad crush on him.
The sound of approaching footsteps made Darque tense and Eugenie watched his fingers clench, unclench then dig into the rolled edge of the throne. He sat up a bit straighter. His left leg started jumping—a sure sign he was ready to bestow his infamous ire on whoever annoyed him.
“Restraint,” she said quietly.
The door at the end of the ceremonial chamber opened and Padraig appeared first beneath the soaring arch. His right hand was clamped around the slender arm of a woman he jerked into view. As he strode forward, he jerked his prisoner with him—causing her to stumble against his much longer stride.
“Oh!” Eugenie said and put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide.
Maire laughed, but when Darque shot her a quelling look, she tucked her bottom lip between her teeth though laughter still danced in her cornflower blue eyes and her slender shoulders shook.
Padraig brought the daughter of Darque’s deadliest enemy to stand at the bottom of the steps leading up to the dais then pushed her to her knees. “The Lady Aisling Meyrick,” he said with contempt rife in his voice.
Eugenie’s heart went out to the girl. Her hair was in a lopsided bun that was frazzled around her head like fluff on the head of a dandelion. Her empire waist gown was badly soiled along the skirt, torn at the hem, one sleeve torn to reveal a slender shoulder. The high neckline was ripped just under her chin and the gown wrinkled so badly she knew it would need to be thrown out. Even from ten feet away she could smell the ripe odor that clung to the girl’s dress.
But it was the livid bruise on the left side of the girl’s face, the scrapes on her chin and jaw that made the Máistreás of Daingean turn her face to her son. “You do something about that or I will,” she said in a tight voice.
Darque was staring at the bruise that had also split the girl’s lip. He slowly shifted that stare to Padraig. “Did you do that?” he asked.
Padraig straightened his shoulders. “She tried to head-butt me, milord,” he responded.
“A man a good foot taller than her?” Eugenie demanded.
“Máthair,” Darque said. “Let me handle this.”
“We were on the ground at the time,” Padraig said.
“With you no doubt atop her,” Maire quipped. “Did you have fun, Paddy?”
“Shut your mouth, Maire!” Darque shouted. He pushed out of the chair, walked down the four steps of the dais and came to stand in front of the kneeling girl. “Look at me,” he ordered.
The girl slowly lifted her head to stare up at him fearfully. With a growl, he hunkered down before her—ignoring the way she flinched away from him—and reached out to take her chin in his hand. He turned her face side to side as he viewed the bruise then looked up at Padraig. His gaze moved over several scrapes and scratches that marked her chin and forehead.
“Really, Padraig?” he asked with an arched brow.
“You don’t know what kind of hellion she is, Darque,” Padraig said.
“I know there is never a good reason for a man to hit a woman in the face,” Darque stated. He released the girl’s chin, got to his feet then drew back his hand and slapped Padraig as hard as he could.
Padraig’s head snapped to the side and he staggered back—eyes wide, mouth open—and gave his chieftain a look of utter surprise.
“Never touch her again,” Darque said. “Do you hear me, Paddy?”
“Aye,” Padraig said. He put his palm to the side of his face.
“And if you ever slap another woman and I find out about it, I’ll beat you senseless. Is that understood?”
Padraig nodded. “It is.”
“She belongs to me, and if there is punishment that needs to be meted out to her, it will be by my hand.”
“Aye, milord,” Padraig said with a slight bow.
“How did she come by the scrapes on her face?”
“She fell,” Padraig replied.
“She fell,” Darque repeated in a dead tone. He locked his eyes on the girl’s. “What caused you to fall?”
“He tackled me to the ground,” the girl mumbled.
“She was running away from me,” Padraig explained.
“So you threw yourself on her.”
Eugenie shifted her attention from her son to the girl kneeling in front of him. She was trembling—her lips quivering—and her heart ached at the sight of the poor thing. It was all she could do not to leave her chair and rush to the girl’s aid. As it was, she could only hope her son took a measure of pity on Meyrick’s daughter.
“She was running away,” Padraig repeated.
“And you tackled her,” Darque said with disgust. “A woman running away from you. You in britches and her in a long gown.”
“She had it hiked up to her knees,” Padraig snapped.
“Your stride is longer yet you felt the need to slam your body into hers to knock her to the ground when you could easily have caught up to her, grabbed her arm and stopped her dead in her tracks,” Darque said.
“She is a hell cat,” Padraig said. “She would have scratched my eyes out had I not had her on her belly with her arms behind her back and—”
“Shut the hell up,” Darque warned.
“Get up, wench,” she heard Darque tell the girl and was disappointed her son did not help her to stand. Instead, he turned his back on her. To her way of thinking, there was never a good reason not to exhibit respectable manners and she had taught him better. She gave him a disapproving look as he came up the steps.
A look he ignored as he took his seat. Crossing his ankle over his knee, he sat back, steepled his fingers and gave Meyrick’s daughter a cold look.
No one spoke—no one dared to—as the girl pushed awkwardly to her feet and stood there swaying a bit. She tried to smooth the terrible wrinkles in the skirt of her gown but it was a lost cause. Eugenie saw her take a deep breath then raise her chin—awaiting her fate with bleak eyes and her lower lip tucked between her teeth.
Silence spun out like a slowly unraveling thread as everyone waited for their chieftain to speak. When he did, every ear was strained toward him.
“There will be no ransom demand. I will disabuse you of that notion here and now,” he said in a tone that was as arctic as his look.
Here and there were knowing nods among the court people. Looks were exchanged. Smug smiles tugged at vengeful lips.
The girl looked stunned. “No ransom?” she repeated, her brows drawn together. “May I ask why not?”
“Because he’s not getting you back,” Darque stated. “Not now; not ever.”
“I’m to be your prisoner, then?” she asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” he replied.
“Don’t get it in your mind to be his bride, though,” Maire said with a laugh. “That’s not what he has in store for you.”
Without looking at her, Darque directed his words to the young woman without turning her way. “Go to your room, Maire.” When she didn’t immediately rise, he swung his narrowed gaze to her. “Now.”
With a toss of her head, Maire shot to her feet and flounced away. As she passed Aisling, she gave her a hateful look.
Darque waited until his ward left before turning to his mother. “Would you show the Lady Aisling where she will be staying henceforth, Máthair?”
“I would ask you to reconsider this, milord,” she said quietly to her son. “This is not—”
“Let me rephrase my command, Máthair,” he said, cutting her off. “Show her where she will be staying henceforth.”
Eugenie stared into her son’s eyes and saw the stubbornness that he had inherited from his father and sighed. There would be no arguing and no persuading. She nodded her head in acknowledgement of his command and got to her feet. Padraig came forward to put out a hand to help her down the steps.
“Milady,” the warden said.
“I am most unhappy with you, Padraig,” she said as she took his hand, but she gave it a light squeeze before slipping her fingers from his.
“And I am truly contrite, milady,” Padraig replied.
“Like hell you are,” she told him.
“I’m sorry I incurred his wrath,” Padraig amended.
Eugenie gave an unladylike grunt then walked over to where her son’s prisoner stood. She inclined her head to the Meyrick girl who curtsied gracefully. “Come, Lady Aisling,” she said. “I will see you to your new quarters.”
“And see to her attire, Máthair,” Darque instructed. “She looks like a street walker and stinks worse than one.”
That seemed to galvanize the girl at her side for Aisling pivoted around to send Darque a condemning look. “I would not look so if your man had not treated me as one!” she accused.
Eugenie watched her son’s face pale before he swung enraged eyes to Padraig.
“No!” Padraig said, holding his hands up. “Hell, no! I did not lay a hand on the wench, Darque. I swear it on my love for—”
“Shut the hell up!” Darque shouted. He turned back to the girl. “Explain what you mean by that, witch!”
For a moment Eugenie did not think the girl would answer then it seemed as though the flood waters broke through the self-imposed dam of her temper and gave gushing out with vengeance.
“Look at me, you dolt!” Aisling flung at him. “I have only the clothes on my back and lucky to have them. He…” She pointed at Padraig. “Chased me from the hut where I was administering to a sick woman whose puke still clings to me. Then he pursued me for nearly two days through the muddy forest, ran me to ground as though I were a gazelle he was chasing, flung me about like a sack of flour then tied me hand and foot to a tree—where I spent the night while he enjoyed the comfort of a tent. He shoveled food into my mouth with his dirty fingers and—”
“Enough!” Darque snapped. “Is this true, Paddy?”
“Brought me here and threw me into a room where he would not allow me to have the benefit of towel or rag or soap or shampoo! Forbade your servant to provide me with clean clothing. Locked me in that room with nothing to entertain me save my thoughts of gelding him!” she finished. “Which I will gladly do if you would but loan me the use of a dull, rusty blade! Preferably one that has been used to dig offal out of a pig sty and still coated in the muck!”
Eugenie covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Padraig looked as though he would pummel the chit and Darque was staring at her as if she had grown a second head. No one—no one—had ever dared speak to her son in such a tone or with such venom. It was a treat to watch the confusion and the surprise flitting across his face.
Every eye was on Darque. The silence as they awaited his reaction was deafening. When at last he spoke, breaths were held.
“Are you finished?” he asked, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“No, and if that was not insult enough, he came barreling into my room this morn and bellowed at me to get my arse up to meet with you! He would not allow me to shut the bathing chamber door, so I had to relieve myself in earshot of him!”
Darque slowly turned his head to glare at Padraig.
“He gave me no time to make myself presentable before dragging me before you,” Aisling continued. “Though I could scarcely have done so since I had no brush or comb, no toothbrush and—again—no clean clothing!”
“We do not treat women in such a manner, Padraig,” Darque said. “You will be taken to task for having done so.”
“Aye, milord,” Padraig said with a mulish expression. “But in my own defense, she is the enemy and you did tell me to treat her as such.”
“I did not tell you to manhandle the bitch or treat her so disgracefully!” Darque yelled at him. “Denying her the most basic conveniences was not one of my orders!”
“Mayhap I misunderstood,” Padraig said. “I ask your apology.”
“Your apology should be aimed at Lady Aisling,” Eugenie told him.
“Don’t push it, Máthair,” Darque warned.
“I agree with your mother,” the girl said with a lift of her chin. “Your man owes me an apology.”
“Well don’t hold your breath in getting it,” Padraig mumbled.
“I don’t expect one from men like you,” the girl said, but her remark was aimed at Darque and it seemed to hit him like a punch to the gut. His face infused with color.
“Men like me?” he echoed. “You know nothing of me.”
“No more than you know anything of me,” she threw back at him.
Darque squinted. “Meaning?”
“Meaning if you think by taking me you are doing harm to my father, you are sadly mistaken. Duke Broderick Meyrick has six sons and he wanted a seventh. He has never had any use for me and there has never been any love lost between us. You are irritated at your man for slapping me? Well, milord, I am accustomed to being treated so by my father and brothers. I would not be surprised if they did not rejoice upon learning your man had rid them of me. It will save my father having to pay a bride price and dowry to whatever man upon whom he intended to foist me.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” Eugenie queried.
“Keep your comments to yourself, Máthair,” Darque grumbled.
“So keep me prisoner if it pleases you, Barún Anbhás,” the girl told him. “I imagine to my father’s way of thinking I am a punishment you well deserve.”
“And when I make you my whore?” he asked. “Will he believe that a punishment for me or him?”
Gasps flowed through the room like a gust of harsh winds. Eyes blinked then locked on Darque.
“Darque!” Eugenie chastised.
The blood drained from Aisling’s face but to give her her due, she did not flinch. “Neither, milord. That will be a punishment for me for having been born a woman,” she replied.
Her son stared at the girl for a long moment—their eyes locked—then his narrowed. “So be it,” he said. “See to her, Máthair.”
“Darque—”
“See to her, Máthair!” he ground out as a muscle ticked in his cheek.
Eugenie took one last look at her son’s set face then sighed. His was an iron will that no man—not even his abusive father—had ever been able to break or even bend. It would be useless for her to try. “Come, Lady Aisling,” she said. “I imagine you could use a morning bath before you break your fast. I’ll find you some suitable garments while you bathe.”
“Thank you, Lady Eugenie,” the girl said, finally looking away from Darque. “It would be most appreciated. Any small kindness you deem to show me is gratefully accepted.”
“That’s the only kindness you’re going to receive,” Darque snapped, but the girl ignored him.