Depressed, Darque took the snifter of Chrystallusian brandy with him out to the stable. He wanted to check on the foal. Going out there barefoot and without a shirt wasn’t the smartest thing to do for it had rained earlier and a chill wind was whipping about the fortress. He shrugged away the discomfort as the wind blasted him. The cold helped the fierce headache that still plagued him.
Opening the stable door, he wasn’t surprised to see a lantern lit at the stall of the new mother and her baby. He didn’t need to guess who had come to look in on the newling.
“Cold as a witch’s tit out there tonight,” the man squatting just inside the stall said as Darque reached it.
“So I noticed,” Darque commented. He leaned against the half-wall with his foot on the bottom plank and looked at the foal that was nursing. “Cute little bugger.”
“She’s making a fine mother,” Padraig said. He looked up then frowned. “Where the fuck is your shirt?”
“Wasn’t thinking when I left the keep,” Darque said. He took a sip of brandy, licked his lips then asked how Padraig’s nose was.
“Still broken,” Padraig growled. “How’s your head?”
“Still hurting.”
“Think drinking booze is a good idea?”
Darque shrugged. “Better than a sharp stick…” He pursed his lips then raised the snifter to his mouth.
Padraig pushed to his feet. “Why aren’t you at the evening meal?”
“Why aren’t you?” Darque challenged.
The other man cocked his shoulder. “Didn’t think I’d be welcome at your table.”
Darque drained the remainder of the brandy then set the snifter on the top rail of the half-wall. He gave his old friend a steady look. “You’re always welcome at our table,” he replied.
“It’s our table now, is it?” Padraig queried.
“Aye, Paddy, it is,” Darque stated without blinking.
“That’s as it should be, I guess,” Padraig said. He opened the half-door and came out of the stall. “I’ve already eaten. Vonni made that chicken dish I like.”
They were silent for a moment then Darque asked him what time he intended to start the recruit training the next day.
“Five of the clock as I always do,” Padraig replied. “You gonna be there?”
“Aren’t I always there?” Darque countered.
“Aye, but I’m thinking you might need to sit out the first sessions or two considering.”
“Considering what?” Darque asked.
“Your head and all,” Padraig answered. “Mayhap you should sit on the sidelines with your bowl of runny porridge and watch the real men do their thing.”
Darque snorted. “I would if there were any real men among them,” he said. He stuffed his hands into the pocket of his jeans. “I’ll see you at five.”
“Suit yourself, but if you fall your ass down and start having a fit of some sort, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Padraig mumbled.
The Taoiseach of Duibhlinn started off, but Padraig called his name. Darque turned.
“You forgot your glass,” Padraig said, cocking his chin toward the brandy snifter.
“Bring it with you and we’ll have another in my office,” Darque said. It was as close to apologizing to Padraig as he was willing to get at the moment.
“Lazy bastard,” Padraig said with a grunt. He swiped the snifter from the rail and started after Darque.
“Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch,” Darque said. “That’s all you know how to do.”
“Might surprise you one day, pretty boy,” Padraig said as he fell into step beside Darque.
****
Maire said nothing to either Lady Eugenie or Aisling as the three women partook of the excellent meal that had been set before them. Without the buffering presence of the lord of the fortress, Aisling did not want to engage in conversation with the bratty teenager. For her part, Maire had nothing to say to either woman—both of whom she had mentally consigned to the fires of the Abyss. As for Lady Eugenie, it was obvious she was worried about her son and kept turning her eyes to the doorway in the hopes of him appearing. The meal was eaten in an unnerving silence that seemed to weigh down the atmosphere in the room like a thick, wet blanket. The sound of male laughter made all three women pause in their eating.
But the laughter moved past the dining room door and on down the corridor.
“A good sign,” Lady Eugenie said. “Mayhap they’ve put aside their differences.”
“That was Padraig with Darque?” Aisling asked. She didn’t think she’d ever heard the warden of Daingean laugh before.
“Aye,” Lady Eugenie answered before lifting her napkin and dabbing at her lips. “Their laughter has filled this keep many a time over the years. They do enjoy one another’s company.”
“They did,” Maire mumbled before stuffing her mouth with a good-sized chunk of beef. She cut her eyes to Aisling in silent accusation.
“And apparently still do,” Lady Eugenie stated. “Unlike us, men get over their anger with their friends quicker. We women tend to hold a grudge much longer.”
Maire shrugged but made no comment to the older woman’s statement.
Having finished her meal, Aisling drank the remainder of the wine in her goblet and shook her head when the steward asked if she would like dessert.
“If you will excuse me, Máthair,” she said—using the term of endearment as Lady Eugenie had requested—“I am really very tired and I promised Healer Quinn I would open the infirmary for him in the morning.” She pushed back her chair.
“Lazy old man,” Maire said. “Any excuse to lie in the bed.”
Lady Eugenie pursed her lips at the girl’s insulting remark but smiled affectionately at Aisling. “Of course, my dear. Rest well. I will see you in the morn.”
Getting up from her chair, Aisling’s attention was drawn to the doorway where Padraig had suddenly appeared. He bowed to Lady Eugenie but ignored her. She watched him swagger over to the sideboard where the dishes from the evening meal sat.
“He’s hungry, so I’m fixing him a plate,” he said in way of explanation.
“He could have joined us for the meal,” Lady Eugenie replied.
“He’s not dressed for it, Máistreás,” Padraig told her. At her frown, he explained her son was shirtless.
Maire looked up from her stuffed artichoke heart—eyes gleaming. “Shirtless?” she repeated.
“He left the bath in that manner,” Aisling said and drew the teenager’s narrow-eyed anger. “I had hoped he’d have taken a shirt from the armoire before he left our chamber.
“As bare-chested and barefoot as a peasant working the fields with his hair all tousled and such,” Padraig said, his eyes locked with Maire’s. “Not exactly a condition in which to present himself to his mother’s table.”
“His wife’s table,” Lady Eugenie corrected.
Padraig rolled his eyes as he turned from the sideboard. “Whatever you say, Máistreás.” He gave her a respectful bow then headed for the door.
“And Padraig?” the older woman called out to him.
“Aye, Máistreás?” he responded.
“I am no longer the Máistreás of Daingean. Lady Aisling is. You should remember that,” she told him.
“Hard to forget it,” he said with a muscle flaring in his jaw. He cast Maire a fleeting look then exited the room.
“He can be such an odious young man,” Lady Eugenie said. She looked up at Aisling who was still standing beside her chair. “He’ll come around.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Maire said with an unladylike snuffle.
“And you’d prefer there be strife between the two of them,” Aisling snapped. Her hands were on the back of her chair, her knuckles white from her fierce hold.
Maire smiled nastily. “It was not I who started the strife between them,” she said. “That honor goes to you.”
Lady Eugenie opened her mouth to chastise the girl, but Aisling held up a hand.
“Henceforth, you will take your meals either before or after the family,” Aisling told Maire. “I will not have your bile worming its way into what should always be a comfortable and amiable event.”
Fury sparked in Maire’s eyes. “You can’t—”
“I can and I do!” Aisling cut her off. “Heed me, little girl, or I will insist my husband—your Taoiseach—send you to Galrath to learn your place in this world!”
Maire whipped her head toward Lady Eugenie. “Are you going to allow this whore to speak to me in—?”
“Lady Aisling is the new Máistreás of Daingean,” Lady Eugenie said. “The new Banbharún of the Barúntachta. I—just as you—must bow to her decisions. If I were you, I would heed her words, Maire Beirne. You have made a very powerful enemy of her.”
“And if you call me another insulting name, I promise you, girl, you will find yourself toothless and hairless ten seconds afterwards!” Aisling stated. She turned and walked away, surreptitiously winking as she passed her mother-in-law.
****
Staggering his way back to the barracks where he would be spending the night in order to be up and about at the dreaded 5 of the morning start time, Padraig sorely regretted having downed that last brandy. He’d never been able to drink Darque under the table and tonight had been no exception.
“Never been able to best the bastard at anything,” he muttered as he stumbled and had to reach out to grab a hitching post to keep from pitching face-down in the mud.
It was raining again, and this time it was in earnest. Already there were mud puddles sitting in islands around the inner bailey. Come morning, it would be a dirty, stinking mess that would be coating the boots—and without doubt—the uniforms of the new recruits.
Head throbbing, broken nose a particular source of agony, he faltered to a stop to prevent the nausea from leaping up his throat. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes and stood there wobbling back and forth for a moment or two. The wind sent the rain lashing against his face, but the cold water did nothing to help revive him. Instead, it made him all the more miserable for it was running down the collar of his shirt and between his shoulder blades.
Padraig.
He brought his head up. It was the voice of the witch calling to him. She was close by and he squinted through the rain to catch sight of her. When he did, he found her standing in the doorway of the tack room crooking a finger at him.
Grinning lopsidedly, he let go of the hitching post and changed directions, lurching through the squelching mud like a marionette with a broken string. As drunk as he was, he knew he couldn’t get his cock to stand to attention if he tried, but the witch didn’t know that. Her lips wrapped around his shaft would go a long way in helping to make him feel a bit manlier.
As he neared where she was standing, he watched her back into the darkness of the tack room.
Soaked to the skin by the time he swayed into the room, he ran the back of his arm under his chin to wipe away the rainwater. She had lit a lantern and in the low light her red hair was the color of blood.
“Missed me, did you?” he said, garbling his words.
“We need to talk,” she said.
He nodded, and wished he hadn’t when the world spun crazily around him. He slammed his back against the wall and pawed toward the door to close it but kept missing. It shut by itself when she lifted a hand toward it.
“Neat trick,” he said and lost his footing. He slid down the wall and landed with a grunt on the tack room floor with his legs splayed out in front of him.
Hissing, she came over to where he had fallen and squatted down in front of him.
“Have you come up with a plan?” she asked.
He shook his head and shouldn’t have. Nausea beat at the back of his throat and it was all he could do to keep it down.
“Well, I have,” she snapped. “I have learned there is a Chónaidhm spy among a band of gypsies near my parent’s hut.”
He looked up at her. “You know a Chónaidhm spy?” he asked suspiciously.
“I know of one,” she replied. “He is offering a goodly reward for the capture of the Taoiseach.”
“Bastard,” he grumbled. “Offering money for a man’s life is a sin.”
“It’s good he has for otherwise I might never have learned of his existence or how to contact him,” she said.
“All the same, ’tis a sin,” he argued.
“If I send word to him, tell him I can make the Taoiseach available to him, will you handle the rest of it?” she asked.
Padraig cocked his head to the side to look up at her. “You would turn him over to them?”
“Don’t you want your revenge, Padraig?” she pressed.
“Aye, but to turn him over to the enemy…” He
“What other way is there, Padraig?” she questioned. “Think on it. If the Chónaidhm capture him and take him to an Deisceart, there will be such a furious outcry, you won’t have enough uniforms to clothe the volunteers who will enlist to fight the Chónaidhm. Darque may be feared, but he is just as equally loved by our people. They will rally around you, fight to the last man to try to get to him.”
“Meyrick will kill him,” Padraig said. “They’ll realize who they had those years ago and finish what they started. They’ll hang, draw and…” He shuddered. “I don’t know. I don’t think I can do that to him.”
“What choice do we have, Padraig?” she argued.
“I’ve known him all my—”
“What choice do we have, Padraig?” she repeated a bit louder. “Will you let the cunt of a whoring Chónaidhm bitch dictate the history of our people?”
Though he didn’t know it, she forced the thought of the new Máistreás rutting with numerous men while her husband looked on helplessly—wringing his hands and sobbing at her cuckolding him. She quickly replaced that image with one of Darque Anbhás turning over Daingean to Duke Broderick Meyrick.
“No!” Padraig snarled. “I’ll not allow it!”
“Then what must be done?”
Another image of Darque laughing with Meyrick, toasting him at a celebratory feast drove deep into Padraig’s mind.
“No,” he said quietly. “He has to be given over to them.”
“Then, you must get him to a place where they can take him,” Madeline said. “Somewhere that his men cannot help him escape this time.”
“I know the place,” Padraig replied. “Torc Cave. The troops will need to make their way up there under the veil of night so they won’t be seen. They will wait until I’ll get him there the next morn and then they can take him. They won’t be able to leave again until nightfall, but I will return immediately to Daingean.”
“Won’t he be missed?” she asked. “How will you explain his absence? What if someone should see the two of you ascending the mountain and only you coming back down?”
“I will say we argued and that he told me to go, to leave him be, that he wanted to be alone to think. He has spent the night there many a time on his own when we were younger. No one will think twice about it and no one is allowed up there save me and him, so no one will dare go looking for him.”
“What of the cunt?” she asked, putting a hand on his knee.
“I could kill her,” he said. “Strangle her with my bare hands or take a knife to her lying throat.”
“There is a reward for her, as well,” she said quietly.
He narrowed his eyes. “How much reward?”
“One hundred thousand silver pieces if she is brought back to Allendahn alive.”
He thought about that. “That money could be used to add to the war chest,” he said.
“Once she learns he’s been taken, she’ll hie herself to Allendahn to beg for his life,” Madeline told him. “We’ll let her get as far as the border, but before she crosses, we’ll capture her and turn her over to the an Deisceartians and get the reward,” she suggested.
“We?” he repeated. “We will capture her?”
“You and I,” she said and caressed his knee. This time she put carnal images of him and her having wild sex in his mind. She gave him the added bonus of feeling a ghostly mouth wrapped tightly around his cock.
He writhed his ass on the floor and gave her a heated look. “Aye, you and me. I would like to be there to see her face when we grab her.”
“No one must know she’s left Daingean, Padraig,” she warned him. “Mayhap Maire can aid us in that. She can offer to help Aisling leave the fortress. I know a secret way out that will not have anyone the wiser that the bitch has left.” She lowered her voice. “And once Maire’s usefulness is at an end, so, too, will she.”
“Kill the girl?” Padraig said.
“She is privy to our plotting, Padraig. Would you leave her alive to tell her tale and then have us both swinging from the gallows?”
“Nay,” he said.
“Then she will need to go.”
“Mayhap you are right,” he agreed.
“They’ll all three be dead and we will be alive to enjoy the fruits of our labor,” she stated.
“Dead,” he echoed. He frowned then looked down at his hands where they lay in his lap. His knuckles bore the bruises, scraps and broken skin from his fight with Darque. “And I would be responsible.” He hung his head, buried his face in his hands.
She reached out to put her hand on his back and rubbed gently. “He is no longer the friend from your childhood together, Padraig,” she said slyly. “He chose her over you.”
“I know,” he said, “but it does’'t make my betrayal of him any easier to bear.” He raised his head, turned bleak eyes to her. “I will be a traitor. I will have his blood on my hands. I will have his death on my conscience.”
“Aye, but you will also be Taoiseach and you will have Daingean as your own,” she reminded him. “Do you want to see it in the hands of our enemy? Do you want Bloody Broderick Meyrick sitting the ríchataoir of Daingean, deciding the fate of our people?”
She put the thought of a sprawled Duke lounging on the throne in his mind.
“Nay!” Padraig snapped. “Over my dead body!”
“Then give me a time to have the Chónaidhm troops in Torc Cave to take him into custody,” she ordered. She sat back on her heels and waited.
He mulled over everything she’d said. Ran the images through his mind again that he had no idea had been planted there. Heard laughter and the tinkling of glasses and then the screams of his people as their enemy executed them by the hundreds. He shuddered violently then slowly lifted his head to look at her.
“A day,” he said. “Mayhap two to see the deed done.”
He scooted his back up the wall and felt dizzy for a moment as he got to his feet. He wavered there then straightened his shoulders—his mind made up.
“Let us say day after tomorrow,” she proposed. “The troops will make their way to the cave tomorrow around midnight. They’ll be lying in wait for him.”
“Aye,” Padraig said. “It’ll be late in the day when I bring him. After the training session. I’ll tell him we should go up to take a swim.”
“And if he declines?”
“He won’t,” Padraig said. “I’ll make fucking sure he won’t!”
****
The rain was falling harder than ever as Darque eased the covers back and crawled into bed with his wife. She was softly snoring—the sound amusing to him as he nestled down beside her. He knew she’d had a trying, tiring day for his mother had said as much when he tried to sneak past her room.
“You can take the man out of childhood but you can’t take the childhood out of the man,” she’d said as she looked at his bare chest then down to his dirty feet. The grimace said more than any words could.
“We hashed things out,” he said.
“That’s good,” she replied then started to close her bedchamber door. She paused and he did likewise, looking around at her with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t wake her, Owain Darque. She worked long and hard today and she’ll be up early to mind the infirmary while you and Paddy play war with the green ones.”
“There are seasoned men among them,” he said.
“Let her sleep,” she said then finished closing the door.
As much as he wanted to wake her, to make love to her as the rain lashed at the window and far away thunder rumbled low, all he did was stare at her sleeping face. Lying on his side facing her with his hands tucked under his pillow to keep from reaching out to stroke her cheek, he ran his gaze over her beautiful face. The sight of her made his heart swell with pride. She had an inner beauty that matched the outer shell the world saw.
“My wife,” he whispered.
As he lay there, he could pinpoint the exact moment when interest began to blossom into love. It was a moment he would keep secret in his heart and never tell her for he doubted she would believe him. She hadn’t believed him when he’d told her he loved her.
“Give me time,” she’d said, but he had seen the skepticism lurking in her lovely purple eyes.
Men told women they loved them all the time and never meant it. It was part of the game they played to get what they wanted or to keep what they’d gained. Not so with him. He never said anything he did not mean with his entire being or in this case—his heart.
Love at first sight does not happen. It is a myth put forth by desperate women. He remembered hearing that once long ago when he’d had to settle a dispute between a man and woman who were divorcing one another.
But what if it was the man who had experienced that mythic emotion?
He sighed and rolled over to his back, flung an arm over his forehead, clenched his fist and stared up at the rain striking like diamonds against the window panel above him. The sky pulsed for a moment but there was no zing of lightning. The storm was moving away though the rain remained behind in its wake. Staring at the rain falling above him ran a close second to watching snow falling and accumulating on the panels. With his wolf’s eyesight, he could discern individual snowflakes hugging the plexigon. Winter was his favorite time of year.
He turned his head and looked at her. What was her favorite time of year? Color? Food? Pastime? Red or white wine? Was she a morning person or a night bird? Could she swim?
There were so many things he didn’t know about her and she did not know about him. Though he would have a lifetime to learn the answers to his questions, they made him realize why she was so skeptical about his profession of love.
“Too soon,” he said softly. “It was too soon to tell her.”
She stirred, closed her lips then moaned lightly before rolling all the way so her back was to him. She brought her leg up then stuck her foot from under the cover.
That made him smile. The sight of that pale little foot clamped over the coverlet was a childlike thing yet it drove a spike of desire straight through his groin. Would he always have this insatiable lust for her bare feet? He wondered.
He returned to staring at the rain. The clock below stairs chimed midnight. He had four hours to sleep if he was going to be up at 4 and on the training ground at 5. He yawned even though he wasn’t in the least bit sleepy. All the brandy he had consumed hadn’t even made him tipsy though he had hoped it would knock him out. The headache was a constant reminder of his fight with Paddy—a fight he bitterly regretted for the man had been his best friend since they were still in short pants. He loved Padraig Dungannon like a brother. Loved him just a tad more than he had loved Eion. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Paddy.
Well, he thought, almost nothing. When it came to Aisling, all bets were off. She was the most important thing in his life now and Paddy had to learn to accept it.
Trouble was, he didn’t think Paddy would ever come around. The man was a stubborn son of a bitch, and once he set his mind on something he rarely—if ever—changed it. For whatever reason, he had taken an immediate dislike to Aisling. Nay, he thought, it went deeper than that. Padraig bore Aisling an irrational hatred that puzzled him.
He hated to admit it even to himself, but he would have to watch Paddy around Aisling and that worried him.
****
Despite Aisling’s admonishments before she’d left him dressing the next morning and Paddy’s warnings to take it easy, he hadn’t. He did not want to look weak before the men, so he’d pitched right into the training. The first thing on Paddy’s agenda—as it always had been—was hand-to-hand combat.
“If a man can’t throw a decent punch, he ain’t much of a man,” were the first words out of his mouth. “You may be handy with a knife, but you could drop it or have it taken from you. You may be good with a gun, but it can run out of power or bullets or you could drop it or have it taken from you. Not so with your fist. You got ’em, use ’em!”
The seasoned warriors were exempt from the training once they’d gone a round or two with one another as Paddy watched. Unless he found them lacking in some way, he’d order them to show the younger men how it was done. A few he would cull from the herd to show them a thing or two. Those who were complete novices, he turned over to Darque to train. Usually it was the other way around.
“Your head ain’t right,” Paddy had explained earlier. “I won’t have the Máistreás on my ass if you have a fit or the like. You’ll take it easy until I am sure you’re fit enough for the hard stuff.”
Darque knew Paddy had meant his mother and not his wife when he spoke of the Máistreás.
Since Paddy was the warden of the fortress, Darque afforded him the authority he needed to work the men and didn’t argue. Instead, he clenched his jaw and set out to try to teach the newlings a few tricks that might save their lives. One of those newlings was Geyer Vryn.
“How come you can’t fight any better than this?” Darque asked as he stood behind the young man and put his hands around him to show him the correct way to hold his fists to protect his face. “With as many brothers as you have?”
The boy ducked his head. “They always gang up on me, milord. They never come at me one on one.”
“I never thought the Vryn boys to be cowards,” Darque said, “but that is a cowardly thing to do. Especially considering you are their brother.”
“It’s always been the way of it, milord,” Geyer told him. “The elder sets the rules and the rest follow.”
“That would be Paulson?”
“Aye, milord.”
Darque thought of the burly sergeant who ruled his regiment with an iron fist and nodded. “He’s a tough one, that’s for sure.”
“Mean as a cornered ghoret,” Geyer mumbled as he took a few experimental jabs at the air.
“Keep your arm up,” Darque ordered. “Unless you want a broken nose.”
He saw Paddy look over at him and grinned. His friend rolled his eyes then went back to yelling at the recruit beside him.
For most of the morning, Darque had his jaw clamped tight for his head was throbbing unmercifully and he was sick to his stomach. Intellectually he knew he had no business being on the training field, but his pride kept him there. It wasn’t until it was Geyer’s turn to try a sneak attack on him that trouble began.
The boy attacked him from behind—jumping on Darque’s back as their Taoiseach had earlier instructed—with his arm hooked securely around Darque’s neck. It was a classic chokehold that was meant to render the enemy unconscious. The hold was executed with Geyer hooking his forearm across the front of Darque’s neck. Geyer then used his free hand to grab Darque’s own wrist and pull back his forearm, effectively blocking his air supply.
Employed just as Darque had told the newlings to employ it, he wasn’t prepared for it to be done on him. Geyer was a strong little bastard and his forearm was like granite as Darque tried to pry it from his neck. Bending forward, struggling to flip the boy over his head only tightened the grip and Darque saw stars. The pain in his head increased then exploded. He clawed at Geyer’s arm—drawing blood—but the boy wouldn’t let go. Unaware everyone had stopped to watch the action, Darque realized he was rapidly losing consciousness. The last thing he heard was Paddy’s shout.
“Let him go! Let him go, boy! Damn it! Let him go!”
****
He woke once more in the infirmary with Aisling standing over him with her hands on her hips and a look on her face that didn’t bode well for him or the young man standing beside her.
“Do you think you are made of stone, Owain Darque Anbhás?” she snapped.
“No,” he muttered and realized his throat hurt almost as much as his head.
“Do you think you are invincible?” she pressed.
“Thought I was,” he said then coughed. He coughed again and again which only made the pain between his temples flare to nearly unbearable proportions.
“You thought wrong!” She turned her stony glare on the boy beside her. “Get this poggle-headed twit some water, Gey,” she ordered and the young man jumped to do her bidding.
“Go easy on the lad,” he managed to say in between coughs. “He was only doing what I told him to do.”
“Aye and now I’m the one doing the telling,” she said. “You are going to stay in this bed until the pain in your head is completely gone.” She leaned over him to point a finger in his face. “Do you understand me, Owain Darque?”
When, he wondered, had she picked up the bad habit of using his first name as his mother did? He wasn’t sure he liked it for it made him feel like a little boy again.
Which was no doubt the intent.
“Aye, Aisling, I understand you.” He gratefully allowed Geyer to lift his head and place the rim of the glass to his lips. He drank—wincing at the pull on his throat muscles—and saw the embarrassed regret in the boy’s gaze.
“You not only passed out,” Aisling said. “You got one helluva nose bleed that was hard for me to stop.”
“All right,” he said, water dribbling down his chin.
“Thankfully Gey picked you up and brought you straightaway to me,” she said, using her hip to nudge the young man to the side so she could tuck Darque’s covers more securely around his bare chest. “You have him to thank for bathing the blood off you.”
“Thanks,” he muttered and saw the young man dip his head in acknowledgement.
“My pleasure, milord,” the boy said.
“He’s a good lad,” Aisling commented. “That man told him to stay here in case I need help with you.”
Darque knew she meant Paddy.
“Now, I’ve got another—more compliant—patient I need to see to.” She straightened and pointed that finger at him again. “You stay put. Do you hear me?”
“Aye, milady,” he agreed. He didn’t think he could get up if his life depended on it. Hers, maybe, but not his own.
“See that he stays in the bed, Gey,” she ordered the boy.
“I will, Máistreás,” Geyer answered.
When she was out of the room, Darque smiled weakly at the young man. “You don’t have to stay,” he said.
“Aye, I do, my Taoiseach,” Geyer stated. “She scares me worse than my ma!”
“Me, too,” Darque admitted.
The young man’s face turned red. “Milord, I am so sorry I—”
“That you what?” Darque interrupted then cleared his scratchy throat. “Did what I told you to do? You did it exactly as I instructed and I’m proud of you.”
Geyer looked pained but he clamped his mouth shut—no doubt to stop himself from apologizing further. He glanced away then back and Darque saw his eyes widen.
“Shit!” he said.
“What?” Darque questioned then felt the warmth trickling over his upper lip and into his mouth. He reached up and put his fingertips on his lip. They came away streaked with blood.
“Milady!” Geyer shouted. “Milady, he’s bleeding again!”
That was the last thing Darque remembered for a while. When next he woke, there was cotton stuffed up his nostrils and Geyer was leaning over him with a look of pure fear.
“I…I’m alright,” he said but the boy didn’t seem to hear. His eyes were glazed and the stare that came from them was unnerving.
“Beware,” the young man said in a strange, eerie voice. “Those closest to you cannot be trusted.”
Darque stared at him. What had Paddy said about the boy?
He swears he was born with a cowl and has the sight.
“Who, Gey?” he asked but the young man’s eyes rolled back in his head, he staggered then seemed to mentally shake himself. When his gaze met Darque’s, his hazel eyes were clear and there was a dazed look on his young face.
“What did I say?” he asked.
“You told me to beware,” Darque answered. “That those closest to me couldn’t be trusted.”
“Heed the warning, milord,” the young man said in a grave voice. “I am never wrong.”
“Wrong about what?” Aisling asked as she came into the room.
“Not a word to her,” Darque whispered and Geyer nodded sagely.
She came to the bed, looked from Darque to the boy, then sighed. “Keep your secrets then.” She returned her attention to Darque. “How are you feeling?” she asked then held up a hand before he could answer. “And don’t tell me well enough to be up and about for it isn’t going to happen.”
“I’m hungry,” he said, shifting his legs beneath the covers. “How’s that?”
“I could fetch him something, Máistreás,” Geyer told her.
“Something light,” she instructed. “Broth, crackers. Gelatin if Bridie has some made. If not, ask her nicely to prepare some for the Taoiseach.”
“Aye, milady,” Geyer said and hurried to do her bidding.
“Mayhap you should tell him how fast to trot next time since he already has how high to jump down pat,” Darque mumbled.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, ignoring his comment.
“It doesn’t hurt quite as bad, but it still bothers me,” he said of the headache.
“Gey has decided you need a bodyguard and I’m inclined to believe you are in need of a babysitter, so he’s going to be sticking with you like glue henceforth,” she informed him. “At least until I know you are healed.”
“Babysitter?” he repeated. “Isn’t that a bit insulting, Aisling?”
“How does aide-de-camp sound, then?” she said.
“That I can agree to,” he replied. “I rather like the whelp.”
“He has the sight,” she said.
A chill ran through him. “You think so?”
“I know,” she stated. “I can sense it and what’s more?” She sat down beside him on the bed. “I think he detects something that concerns him.”
“Like what?” he asked. He should leave well enough alone but the hair was stirring on his arms and he didn’t like it.
“I don’t know. Mayhap I should ask him.”
“Mayhap you should stay out of it,” he said sternly. He didn’t want her worrying and instinct told him Geyer had intuited danger surrounding him. There was no sense in causing Aisling the first moment of concern.
“But—”
“But nothing,” he said and reached for her hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles. He nestled her palm against his heart. “If he wishes to discuss it, he will. Otherwise, allow the man his privacy.”
“Even if I think—?”
“Even if you think,” he stated.
She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth then shrugged. “All right.” She eased her hand from his and scooted off the bed. “I have things to do, so be a good little patient and don’t cause me any problems.”
“Humpf,” he replied, scrunching down in the bed. His head was back to hurting again and he couldn’t help but think his worry over her learning Geyer’s psychic reading was about him was compounding the issue.
Yet when Geyer returned with the food he’d been sent to fetch, the boy seemed not to want to discuss the matter.
“You should rest, milord,” the young man insisted. “I’ll be sitting right over there.”
“Doing what?” Darque pressed.
“Guarding you,” Geyer replied.
It was on the tip of Darque’s tongue to tell the lad the guarding was unnecessary. Instead, he kept his thoughts to himself and dug into the rich beef broth Bridie had sent.
****
“Healer Quinn said it is unlikely he will be out of the infirmary today,” Padraig told Madeline later that afternoon as he sidled up to her outside Lady Eugenie’s sitting room. “Have you sent word to the spy?”
“Aye, but I can send another,” she replied. “How long will his lazy ass be in there?”
“A day or more if what Quinn said is correct. The concussion was worse than they thought.”
Madeline snorted. “Mayhap it will kill him,” she grumbled.
Padraig gave her an irritated look but didn’t argue the point. One way or another, Darque was going to leave this world, and either way he would do so at Padraig’s hand.